


This Winter Won't Last Forever

by gatekat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatekat/pseuds/gatekat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead story<br/>G1, Jazz/Prowl (eventually)<br/>He's alone, he cold, he's miserable, and he doesn't believe that anyone is likely to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Winter Won't Last Forever

Ya'know, sometimes ya have to get somethin' taken away from ya before ya recognize its value. I'm ashamed ta say that's true with me. It's just not with what everybody thinks I miss, but with how much a certain mech was part of my daily functioning. He was always there, always pushing me, pushing everyone, to be better, to not accept good enough, always pushing himself until Ratchet got involved and knocked him out.

Then there were those insane few orns that did more to change the balance of power in the galaxy than millions of vorns worth of our petty little war, and he was gone. So many mechs, good and bad, were gone overnight. It was just starting to sink in just how much and what was gone when he staggered up to Autobot City. The new bots assumed he was in shock, numb to the losses because of his own damage.

I knew better. I saw the way his doorwings quivered, the way he didn't hold himself as our SIC anymore. Like he knew what none of us would find out for days yet. He wasn't SIC, I wasn't TIC or head of Special Operations ... the last of old guard quickly demoted and pushed aside in favor of mechs the new Prime already trusted; Ultra Magnus and Kup in this case. Even expecting it was coming, it stung. Prowl and I, we'd both put nearly our entire functionings into rising through the ranks, in becoming the best at what we did. Now all our skill, experience and connections are left at the wayside in a way that Optimus never did.

When Prowl came out of medbay, he looked as lost as I felt. I made up my mind then; if we couldn't be the Prime's support anymore, we'd be our own. What's left of Optimus Prime's command will be there to see his vision complete. There's really just Prowler and me now. A few others from the Ark are still around, but they're busy with settling into their new roles. Blaster got promoted from Comms to the head of Autobot City. Perceptor's taken Wheeljack's place as head of sciences. Bluestreak and Smokescreen are around, and they give Prowl some comfort, a small connection with a society he's never really been part of, but they have their own lives to deal with and Prowl is a full-time effort. Just like Red Alert is now, but Inferno's taking care of him, not that I expect to see Inferno around much even after Red Alert extinguishes from the stress of the failure no one else really blames him for.

It's a feeling I know all too well right now.

The mech below me is broken in ways not even Ratchet would have repaired, but maybe I can. Maybe he can help me too. Primus knows we both need it. I'm at least as broken as he is, maybe more so. I gave up a lot more to become what I am, after all, and there's no way for me to go back. He ... Prowl was always a reserved mech, a tactician, he'd killed long before the war in the line of duty as an enforcer.

Me ... me, I've got nothing. The mech I was is so long dead I can't even bring up a ghost of him anymore. I can't remember enough to count what's changed. If I'm going to move forward, I'm going to have to reinvent myself again. What better place to start than being a _friend_ to the mech who probably needs it most?

* * *

It's cold, though I hardly feel it. I foolishly believed that I was beyond the shock and horror of war. Beyond the pain of loss and the fatal numbness that follows it. I could not have been more wrong.

I knew the moment I was informed that Rodimus Prime existed that there was a 92.7% chance that I would be replaced as second in command. I found it so unlikely I did not even calculate it that I would also be removed from my position as chief tactical officer. He said that I deserved a break, time to recover from the loss. I know what he meant, however. It could not have been more clear. He is the new Prime, was a young mech before he became Prime. He wants those around him that he is close to, and even more, he does not want those who served his predecessor nearby.

If he had truly been concerned with my mental health, he would have left me with my tactical position. Those were the orns I was most content; when I had important work to do but few leadership duties outside my own, small, department.

Now I have nothing to distract myself from the fact that my frame is aging, my spark weakening, and I have given nothing to the future but the destruction of our world and so many others. I can not even return to my pre-war duties, as their are no enforcers to return to, not in any city.

So I sit here with a human officer in the driver's seat, though he never drives me. None of them do. I'm on duty far more than any human, after all. I have nothing else to do with my time.

It is a tiny thing, to spend a shift each day with an officer patrolling the streets, stakeouts, assisting as any other officer would. My only request to them was respected. I was not to be part of PR of any kind. I was not here as an Autobot ... I've taken my insignia off ... I was here to find myself in what I did so long ago.

I suppose I was lucky. The chief had been deployed twice and understood what war does to the spark, the spirit, of any person. He had smiled when I gave my terms and welcomed me on board. I had an assignment for second shift, the evening shift. No one recognized me. My partner knew he was sitting in Prowl, in a Cybertronian, but he was respectful and asked me no questions.

It was dull. It felt ... good. Cleansing in a way I refuse to contemplate too much.

It's cold tonight. The wind biting as painful as a blaster shot at times. Mostly the bottom of my pedes, exposed as the rear of my alt.

A car is coming, a mech, following all the rules and thus quickly removed from active concern. He parks behind me, but remains silent, so I continue to ignore him.

We sit there in silence for over a joor before my human partner finally speaks.

"Which one is he?"

I have to soft reset my processor to answer him, after I scan the form behind me to learn the answer.

"Jazz."

"Must be a good friend, shielding you from the wind on a night like this," he says quietly, his eyes on the quiet city around us. "Not many wives are that good. You're lucky."

"Lucky?" I hear myself repeat the last word, buying myself time to think.

Silence comes again, broken by the low rumble of an idling Cybertronian engine being revved. Warmth radiates from Jazz's front bumper into my rear one, making cold-abused systems hum pleasantly in relief.

Still he says nothing. Jazz isn't usually a quiet one.

::Autobot Jazz. Is there something wrong?:: I ping him on a general band, unwilling to use the Autobot frequencies I no longer feel I have a right to use anymore.

::Just Jazz, Prowler,:: he replies smoothly, but there is none of the cheer, not even fake cheer, in his voice. ::I'm no more Autobot than you are, after ... you know. He took everything from both of us.::

::Why are you here?:: My battle computer refuses to let it go.

::You and I are all that's left, Prowler,:: his voice is quiet, full of pain and loss, everything my spark is full of. ::I want to see Optimus' vision through.::

::Rodimus rules now,:: I can't help but remind him, desperate to push him and all he represents away even as I'm desperate to have him closer, to have him parked at my side and not my tail.

::I know, Prowler. .I know. But ... I can't become something new, something that'll survive being a Neutral, a civilian, without some _one_ to center it on.::

He leaves the obvious, that he wants to rebuild himself around me, unsaid.

It warms me more than his engine.

It's terrifying on a level I've never felt before.

It's far worse than being completely alone.

::I know I'm asking a lot of ya, Prowler,:: he fills the void uneasily, shifting on his wheels. ::I'll go ... if you'd rather be alone.::

My choice. I know, as surely as I know I'm no longer an Autobot, that he will leave and never come back if I tell him to.

But I want to live as well.

::Jazz.::

::Mmm?::

::Stay.::

* * *

The Ark is rather desolate with just the two of us. Hound technically maintains his quarters here as well, but he is rarely present. He took Mirage's departure for Cybertron and subsequence lack of contact hard. He took the deaths of his friends even harder. I expect he will recover, given a few vorns. His fixation on the wilderness of this world and protecting it bodes well for his eventual state of processors.

I have found that the isolation suits me, suits _us_. This is where we belong, even if the rest of the universe has moved on. We aren't quite ready to, or at least I am not, for all I've been trying.

With so little to occupy myself the processors and battle computer that was once responsible for organizing an inter-galactic army at war is reduced to a single focus: what does Jazz want with me?

Yes, he answered with painful honesty when I first asked. To center himself as he rebuilds himself into something that might survive the new times, might make it in a universe still tense in war that we are no longer a part of, but still very much targets in.

What he has never said is just how he wants to use me. He doesn't seem to grasp that I _need_ to know. Not just the tactician, but the mech. I'm so very tired; I need to know why I'm not allowed to rest yet and 'I need you' is beginning to fail as reasonable cause.

He is not the only mech attempting to reprogram himself.

Yet as I walk up the mountain for our nightly joor of generally silent stargazing, I know that it will be a defining moment for me and likely for us. I have no idea how he will respond. Even my battle computer simply notes there is too little information to make any predictions other than there is less than a 0.00019% probability that he will respond violently. A part of me wishes the probability was much higher. A violent reaction would end me before either of us registered what had happened.

Cowardly, perhaps, but like many others of my generation, I am still not sure I wish to exist in this 'brave new universe' of Rodimus Prime.

"Hay," Jazz smiles, a look that almost reaches his visor.

"Hello," I incline my head and doorwings in an equally muted greeting.

He's already noticed that something is wrong. He knows I have something planned. There's a minute shift in tension as I sit next to him and lean back on my outstretched arms. I have no idea what he's seeing, but he's right. Still, it's not time yet. I want him relaxed first.

* * *

Prowl's been fidgety for days now. I'm not sure why, though I'm fairly sure it has to do with his lack of understanding of what I'm doing. As much as I can read him, he's a difficult mech to really grasp. Not as difficult as Soundwave, but getting there. Yet he settles next to me like he always does, quiet and still. There's a difference in his posture this time. Not much, but it's a subtle shift that shows off his profile to best effect.

It's been easy to forget just how good looking a mech he really is; Praxus had someone who appreciated aesthetics in charge of the pre-programmed mechs. Under different circumstances, I'd have taken this as an invitation to touch, to have a lover for the night or even the vorn. This is Prowl, though. A mech I'm trying to befriend, not seduce. A mech even more vulnerable than I am. A mech, I've come to accept, is nearing the end of his natural functioning without the efforts of Ratchet and the Prime to keep the effects of age at bay. That said, he still has several hundred vorns left before he's likely to extinguish. More than long enough to have a taste of _living_ if he wants it.

We settle into silence, most of the joor we usually spend up here, just looking at the stars. It's something I did with Prime when he was feeling stressed. Whether it was up here on the mountain, a tower in Iacon or a burnt out building's roof somewhere else. We'd sit and watch the stars. Sometimes he'd need more, or I would, but it was mostly just taking a little time to sit with a friend and watch something peaceful and lovely in quiet.

Prowl's taken to the habit well.

Maybe he's not going to try tonight, whatever he's up to. Or maybe he's looking for me to do something in response to his invitation. I'm not sure, and I can't say I like it. Neither of us are very good about _saying_ what we need. I used to be a lot better at guessing though. I could read Prime as well as I could read my own agents.

"Jazz?" his voice catches my attention. How did he shift all the way to his side, facing me, and I didn't notice? Maybe it's a good thing I'm retired. I'd get mechs killed this distracted. "Are you all right?" He's moved again. Now he's sitting on one hip, his EM field brushing against mine across the handspan that separates us now.

He's never let me feel his field before. Even when I touch him, he pulls his field so close in and mutes it so I get nothing. I still wonder who taught him that trick. It's not a common one outside medical and special ops.

It's jarring to _feel_ him for the first time. I can't even begin to process the information real-time. I'll be teasing details from this for joors, but the key points are clear and my systems are already revving in response when he rolls the rest of the small distance to come chest to chest with me, his chassis against mine. It's fluid grace, but never so fast that I don't have a dozen opportunities to pull away, say something, or move into the contact.

Do I want to move in? He's a good looking mech, no doubt. I'm going to spend a lot of time with him. But what is he going for? I won't lie to him.

Oh _Primus_. He's so warm, his mouth against mine, his glossa slick as he asks for entrance.

I feel my vents stall and give what's asked for.

Nobody kisses _me_ like this.

No one.

I'm not sure who moans first, who's hands reach for the other first, who's fingers dig into armor joints first.

It doesn't matter. It never matters.

It's all I can do to still myself and bring my hands up to his face when he finally relents slightly and releases my mouth. I follow his fractional retreat for a quick, chaste kiss to take the sting out of what I'm about to do.

"Ya love me?" I asked, stroking his cheek plates with a thumb.

He looks me right in my optics, his features neutral, his field so tangled in mine that I'll _know_ if he lies. I have no doubt it's all as intentional as the kiss. I may not understand what's up yet, but I understand him well enough.

"No," the word is soft, gentle. As polite as he's ever been, and there's not a trace of unease in saying it.

"Lookin' for comfort?" I try again, watching him watch me. I'm sure he recognizes my confusion, but that's not what he's after.

"Not particularly," comes the second denial.

"Then what?"

A very faint smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Testing a theory."

I can't help but raise an optic ridge at him before it hits me.

I brush my thumb along his cheek again. "Don't get me wrong, you're an attractive mech. I'd enjoy sharing a berth for the next few hundred vorns. But I'd hesitate to call us lovers, no matter how long it lasted."

"That would be acceptable," he regards me evenly.

"But it's not what ya want."

Only now does he drop his optics, his field shivers at the truth of it.

"I have never had what I wanted," he says simply. "I have what is enough."

As much as it stings to hear it, it's been true for me too, for much of my existence. I remember that I was once content, once happy all the way to my spark, but I can no longer recall how or why those feelings happened.

"That doesn't have to be true," I can't help but whisper and draw him against me again, but as a friend. "You have time to have what you want, exactly what you want."

* * *

Jazz on-lined gradually, content and feeling unusually safe with a strong pair of arms wrapped around him and a trusted mech against his back. He'd been uneasy about Prowl's proposal at first, but he had to admit the pleasantness of having a warm chassis against his in recharge was well worth the occasional discomfort of cycling up with a charge to deal with on his own.

With nowhere to be, he relaxed into light recharge once more. Only a few kliks later an incoming transmission roused Prowl and out of sheer habit Jazz listened in without making any outward indication he knew anything.

When it ended, Prowl nudged his shoulder. "I know you're on line Jazz. A contact of mine in the UN has requested assistance in organizing the rescue efforts in Kashmir, both Pakistani and Indian regions."

"The earthquake?" Jazz powered up his optics with a definite look of interest as he shifted to face his friend. "They want _us_ , not the Autobots?"

Prowl gave him a small, pleased smile, his visible door wing twitching happily. "Us. Hound as well, if he'll come. Even if the Autobots lend assistance, which is expected, it is _my_ command."

Jazz couldn't help the broad, elated grin that spread across his face before he scrambled off the berth and offered a hand to Prowl, who accepted it. "Circumstances suck, but this is _so_ your type of gig."

The small smile extended just a touch, reaching pale blue optics. "Yes." He paused, optics locked on Jazz. "Perhaps enough to show Rodimus I am still useful outside his inner circle. My battle computer is effective for more than just battle plans."

"You're more than your battle computer, Prowl," Jazz kept the scowl in check, but not his tone. _Someday_ he'd get it through his friend's thick helm that he could be stripped of all his special hardware and still be valuable.

"It is what makes me more useful than most," Prowl said stiffly, causing Jazz to sigh.

* * *

Jazz hadn't been this dirty and dinged up without a battle in vorns, yet he didn't mind. It felt incredibly good to _do_ something helpful. The thanks, grateful looks and respect helped even more. But it was what it did to Prowl to receive it was what really made Jazz smile. For the first time since Optimus extinguished, the tactician didn't look like he wished he had the programming to take his own spark.

"Is he your husband?" a soft female voice asked from near his feet, causing his visor to flash in surprise as it reset, his processors trying to grasp the question even though he knew exactly what it meant and the answer. The thirteen-year-old girl was looking up at him, everything about her marking the question as an innocent one.

He wasn't entirely sure why, but Jazz looked over at where Prowl was directing both human and Cybertronian rescue teams. He was outside their visual range, but not his sensors. A soft smile crossed his features.

"No, we're not together like that," he looked down at the girl, curious what caused her to ask. "We're just friends."

"Oh," she murmured, disappointment clear on her features for a brief moment before she looked down in a picture of contriteness. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend."

"Ya didn't sweetie," Jazz knelt to assure her. "I had my chance and didn't take it."

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes scrunched in a cute look of confusion. "Why?"

He chuckled softly and glanced up, towards Prowl again, before going serious. "He may not look it, but he's an old mech for his type. He'd be content with me, but he doesn't love me. He deserves a chance at real love."

"Oh," she murmured again, then smiled brightly. "You sound like my father. That's why he's not with my mom anymore. He's a Marine at the embassy and we're helping with the rescue efforts."

"You father sounds like a good man," Jazz perked up slightly and paused. "They need my muscle. Where's your father?"

"There," she pointed to a small group of Americans in green cammies and trotted off towards them.

* * *

A long, tiring two months later and they were back at the Ark, feeling better than they had in a long time. Jazz didn't bother to try and control the purr of his engine as he snuggled in Prowl's arms, both most of the way into recharge.

"Jazz?"

"Mmm?"

"Did you mean what you said to the girl?"

"Umm?" Jazz cycled his optics and forced his processors to fast-boot. "You heard?"

"Of course," Prowl's voice is smooth, calm, unruffled.

Jazz stilled completely, replaying exactly what he'd said and why. Prowl let him think, waiting patiently until his companion nodded.

"Yeah, I meant it, Prowl. Ya deserve better than I can give ya."

A soft ventilation washed over Jazz's neck.

"Perhaps I do not wish any more than you offer," Prowl said quietly. "I admit I am surprised you were not aware that I have loved and had it returned. I did not believe we were that circumscript, for all we did try."

The former Ops mech cycled his optics several times as he processed that. Then again as he realized that even knowing it had happened, he couldn't place who Prowl's lover had been. Obviously a mech that hadn't made it, not that it narrowed the field much.

"Okay, I give. Who?" Jazz asked with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

A small, sad smile crossed Prowl's features, though Jazz didn't see it. "Optimus."

* * *

::Jazz. It has been too long,:: Mirage's smooth vocals ghosted across the heavily encrypted comm line. ::How have you faired?::

::Better than anybody expected and not nearly as good as I'd like,:: he chuckled silently, half an optic on Prowl as he studied whatever was on the monitor in front of him. ::What brings you near Earth?::

::I have been given a long-term mission and the authority to select my team so long as they agree,:: the noble sounded as excited as he deserved to be. ::It is far away from the new Prime and in a *civilized* location. Not much Ops work. It's all picking up what New Crystal City saved of our culture and technology and bringing them into the empire again. Though I was warned that we were the ones expected to learn how to be civilized again.::

Jazz snickered at the grimace in his friend's voice. ::So who're ya picking up?::

::You, Prowl, Red Alert, Inferno, Bluestreak, Tracks and Grapple,:: Mirage replied. ::Inferno has agreed for both of them, as has Tracks. I have not yet heard reply from Bluestreak or Grapple.::

::That's an ... interesting team. Just what is this mission, really?::

::For most, it's paid retirement, a place to heal, for those who deserve it,:: Mirage answered honestly. ::My duties are as I said, though I welcome assistance with them.::

::What did Tracks do to earn such a reprieve?:: Jazz couldn't help but tease. He knew, but he wanted to see if Mirage would *admit* it.

There was a noticeable pause before the reply came, and the spy's voice was softer than usual. ::He makes me feel special.::

Jazz stiffened in shock, catching Prowl's attention. ::Mirage ... how serious?::

Another pause and Jazz held up a hand to waylay Prowl's question.

::We aren't talking about bonding or sparklings. I doubt we ever will,:: the noble began with just a faint tremor in his voice. ::But serious for now.::

Jazz shuttered his optics behind his visor. ::I wish you both the best, then. If he hurts you, the universe won't be big enough to hide in,:: he actually growled, still highly protective of his top agents, the closest thing he had to family and trusted friends. The closest he'd dared to letting himself *care* about anyone in a long time. They were his sparklings, all grown up. At least that was how he explained it to those who got too close to one.

::Thank you, Jazz,:: real warmth infused Mirage's voice for a moment. ::Will you and Prowl be joining us on the mission?::

::Let me ask,:: Jazz turned to face Prowl, who was waiting patiently. "Mirage has positions for both of us on a long-term assignment to New Crystal City. Wanna come?"

Prowl cycled his optics and accessed all the information available on the location. A sharply drawn vent and his optics brightened considerably. "Yes."

::I heard,:: Mirage chuckled on the comm. ::Be at Autobot City by ten hundred tomorrow.::

::Are you going to talk to Hound?:: Jazz interrupted the attempt to end the conversation.

A soft, resigned sound came before any words. ::He still hasn't accepted that it's over?::

::I think he has, but he still *cares* about you, 'Raj. It'd go a long way for him to see you functioning well.::

::Very well, Jazz. I will speak with him.::

* * *

Prowl watched with fascination all the changes such a small time, only a few metacycles at most, had wrought in these surviving members of the Ark crew.

Red Alert was the least surprising. For the safety of everyone else he was in medical stasis until they reached New Crystal City in twenty orns. Inferno was taking much of the time so far to relax and recharge, something he no doubt had experienced little of in the past year.

It was only the way Bluestreak stilled in silence, staring at him with wide optics, that he thought to consider how much he may have changed. It felt completely natural to have an arm around Jazz as the former saboteur rested against his side in light recharge.

"So soon?" Bluestreak finally found his voice, though it was very quiet and in the Praxian dialect, not Autobot. Matched with his doorwings it was as much disapproval as the younger Praxian could muster against his elder.

"No," Prowl replied, keeping to their home dialect.

Bluestreak locked his optics on the way Prowl's fingers slid along Jazz's side, up and down, soothing. A caress usually reserved for lovers and close kin in Praxus for its proximity to their doorwings and the intimacy implicit in being so close to the sensitive panels.

A low hiss escaped the mechling, his doorwings lifting in a mixture of distress and anger.

"He is not Praxian," Prowl reminded him quietly, never stopping his stroking. "The same rules do not apply. He does not touch me this way."

It seemed to mollify Bluestreak enough to turn his attention to talking at Grapple.

::What was that about?:: Jazz asked on a private comm line, sill feigning recharge.

::He knows I was with Optimus,:: Prowl explained. ::It is ... beyond unacceptable to take another lover so soon after loosing one you've been with a long time.::

::Good thing he never saw us recharge together then,:: Jazz teased softly, then went more serious. ::If it's so unacceptable, why try to start something? More than once.::

Prowl was silent for a long moment, even his fingers stilled. ::Still trying,:: he murmured. ::I was never a *citizen*, Jazz, though Bluestreak is unaware of my legal status. I was never part of his culture.:: He lowered his head so his lips touched a sensor-horn. He smiled at the small shiver it caused in the mech curled against him. ::Optimus and I began as mutual comfort. No more. No different than what I gathered you were with him and many of your agents, even many of the general army.:: He began to stroke Jazz's side once more. ::It was thousands of vorns before it became anything more.::

He sighed softly, a warm vent of air washing over Jazz's sensory horns. ::What we have is enough, Jazz. If you truly do not wish my attentions I will stop. I have come to understand that I misspoke the night I kissed you. I was seeking comfort. I still seek to escape some of the pain in pleasure. I will never not miss him. I do not have the vorns ahead of me for it to fade. However I do know that sharing pleasure with one you trust can make the ache less.::

::You're making it difficult to keep saying no,:: Jazz grumbled somewhat playfully.

::Good,:: Prowl purred over the comm.

* * *

Tracks cornered Jazz in the back of the shuttle, in one of the few relatively private spots in the small vessel, when the former Ops mech slipped away to relax in solo combat practice.

"Look Jazz, I'm not going to hurt him," the snobby blue mech sounded as grounded and sincere as Jazz had ever heard him. It was enough to earn him a calculated look of confused innocence, to which he snorted. "No playing innocent, Jazz. Even if Mirage *hadn't* told me about your reaction to those who hurt your mechs, it got out after Snapshot broke Ripcord's spark. Everyone knows the price of hurting one of yours."

"He's not mine anymore, Tracks," Jazz retorted with some honest bitterness, never pausing in his forms.

Another short. "The Pit he's not, but whatever, mech. I'm just here to tell you you can chill a bit. I'm treating him the way he deserves and I'm not going to stop."

Jazz paused between katas and really looked at the mech. Eventually he nodded. "See that you don't."

"And Tracks," Jazz stopped him as he turned around. "See that you let him go gently."

"Always," the blue mech murmured.

* * *

"Welcome, Prowl. I am Soft Touch, the senior doctor in New Crystal City," the pale blue, white and cream toned femme greeted the Praxian with a gentle smile and polite wave towards one of only three med berths in the two-room facility that passed as New Crystal City's hospital.

What it lacked in size it made up for in quality, Prowl decided as he took in the space and its master. It was everything that Ratchet's domain had not been in a very long time. As a wartime medic, Ratchet had to focus on getting a high volume of repairs done quickly and rarely had the resources to invest in such quality equipment.

"Hello, Soft Touch," Prowl greeted her politely and sat, all too familiar with medical examinations to be phased by it. He extended his hand with a datachip. "My full medical records, including what you will not find in the official copy you were forwarded. The new sections are notated for easy reference."

A brief cycle of deep blue optics in surprise and she inserted the chip in her arm. She stood silent and still for nearly a full klik as she accessed and evaluated the new information and the reasons each piece was not in the primary file.

"You are aware of the contents of the expanded file?" she asked after she incorporated all the data into her personal files and looked at him with tightly controlled excitement at the challenge he represented to her craft.

"Of course. I wrote it," Prowl responded. "Ratchet would be furious if I did not provide my medic all the relevant information for my care, whether they had clearance or not. All those involved in the decisions are gone, so there are no punishments to hand out."

Soft Touch nodded slightly, a touch of uncertainty and unhappiness marring her delicate features.

"I was a senior officer, ma'am. My continued functioning was too important to the cause to allow something as trivial as my desires or the laws of a city that no longer existed to influence it," Prowl waylaid her question. "I do not wish to continue the treatment."

She nodded slowly, her core programming both rebelling and approving of the choice. It was allowing a life to end and not doing all she could, yet he had already outlived his intended functioning many times over. In the end, that he chose, with a clear understanding, was what made her accept it.

"Very well. You are familiar with what to expect in the last twenty vorns of functioning?"

Prowl nodded calmly, absently aware of the scans being run on all his systems to assess his current condition and thus how long he would be expected to function before reaching the point where medical aid was no longer relevant. "I reviewed the files when I came on line and I have witnessed many of my kind age and extinguish. What are the laws regarding ending one's functioning here?"

Soft Touch could only stare at him, her mouth open in horrified shock.

"Ma'am, have you witnessed what deactivation by age is for a pre-programmed mech?" He asked patiently, then continued when she shook her head, still in shock at his candor. "Those who are lucky are smelted alive when starvation makes it appear they have deactivated," he said, watching with mild amusement as shock shifted to absolute, utter horror. That look at what the Golden Age did never ceased to please him. "They experience a few moments of limited pain as the smelter reaches their spark chamber, but it is then over."

"The _lucky_ are smelted alive?" Soft Touch nearly screeched, her fingers tightening around the datapad in her hand so hard it nearly cracked.

Prowl nodded. "The unlucky are disassembled alive, their spark fading only after the majority of their parts are gone. I'm sure you are aware of just how much of a mech can go missing without extinguishing their spark."

She nodded, her frame shaking slightly.

"The truly misfortunate are permitted the grace of starving to deactivation. A process that will take a vorn for the average mech of my type," Prowl met her wide optics with hard, pale blue ones. "Now, what are the laws regarding deactivation of the old?"

"Honorspark and Truesky are priests trained in the art of sending sparks to Primus," she answered shakily. "They serve all citizens of New Crystal City, regardless of origins. You ... won't need to ask your ... friend to do so."

"Thank you," Prowl inclined his head to her, his doorwings waving in intense relief. "I do not wish to ask that of him."

"I can imagine not," she found her center and focused on the interview again. "Speaking of Jazz, what is your relationship to him? Your housing request indicated you both wished to live together, however you requested one double berth and one single."

"It is evolving," Prowl didn't hide the small, pleased smile that she missed. "We are former comrades in arms, currently friends and discussing the option of lovers. The second berth is more to keep appearances for Bluestreak than any true need for it."

That raised an optic ridge at him. "What is your relationship to Bluestreak that his opinion would matter so much?"

Prowl vented a small sigh. "I became his surrogate creator not long after Praxus was destroyed. He was a mid-stage mechling and I was the only Praxian on base at the time. He is aware of my last relationship, which ended with the mech's death in the battle of Autobot City on Earth. As such he is expecting me to follow the Praxian grieving cycle. It is highly inappropriate to take a lover, or even think of it, so soon."

The medic nodded. "Would I be correct that you have not had any counseling for your loss?"

"Correct," he answered simply.

"And you have no desire to have any," she continued, a less than pleased look on her features.

"Correct. It is a waste of resources given my age," Prowl gave one of the few arguments she couldn't really argue with. "I am quite capable of performing my function for the city until critical systems begin to fail."

"While I disagree, we will have that discussion at a later date. After you have settled into your duties here," she consented. "Do you have any questions of me?"

"Not a question, a request. Become intimately familiar with the best responses to a glitch-induced system crash and the medication I respond best to. I am highly resistant to most, particularly sedatives and suppressants of all kinds. My glitch does not crash my processor in the way a typical crash happens."

"I did notice," she smiled gently at him. "I will be ready when it happens. Ratchet is a very thorough record keeper."

"He was a battlefield medic with a crew that had many medical issues. He had to be prepared for someone else to take over his duties without warning at any time," Prowl reminded her.

"Besides Red Alert and yourself, what else did he have to deal with?" She was purely curious now.

Prowl chuckled. "There were the split-spark twins; a berserker, narcissist sociopath in Sunstreaker and the slightly saner but less mature Sideswipe. Jazz, who doesn't even know how many designations he's used over the vorns or half of what he's done. Wheeljack, who had time reserved for him every decaorn on the assumption, typically correct, that he would blow himself up in his lab. You'll learn about Tracks and Mirage soon enough. And there was Prime, who was only marginally better at taking care of himself than Ratchet thought I was."

"You took adequate care of yourself in your opinion?" she was curious again.

He flicked a doorwing in a shrug. "If I failed to see to my own needs, I could not work efficiently. It is illogical to allow myself to perform at a sub-standard level."

Soft Touch nodded. "Quite true," she smiled, pleased that such a workaholic saw the value in keeping up on at least minimal needs. It would save her much grief. "If you would send Jazz in, your guide will arrive when I am finished with him."

"Of course," Prowl inclined his head to her and stood, walking to the door under her critical gaze.

* * *

Prowl watched his roommate move about their quarters, dancing to music only he heard, from the corner of one optic while reading a history file from the massive New Crystal City library. The mech was all grace, barely aware of his own movements but fully aware of the affect he had on others. It was doing things to Prowl's systems he had long thought only Optimus could manage.

He could stand and try to pull Jazz to the berth to join him, though that had failed miserably in the past. It was time for a new tactic. One that would at least leave _his_ systems settled, even if it didn't give him what he really needed.

He set the datapad down, out of the way, and shifted on the double berth so he could easily access most of his frame while watching Jazz move. Every sensor in his net was tingling, set off by watching the sensual movements of the frame he wanted so badly against his own. It had been too long since he'd felt a lover's touch. Even holding Jazz at night was beginning to loose its effectiveness at cooling the incessant demands of his systems.

The first touches were light, simply stroking his chest and abdominal plates, circling headlights with a finger, rubbing the shock absorbers on his tires. He worked himself with those preliminary touches until his engine was purring and his core temperature hot enough to set off the first warning indicators. It took very little time while watching Jazz move. The dancer was quite enough to cause most of the desired response on its own.

With his vents wide open and fans at 70%, Prowl moved on to touches that dragged a low sound from his vocalizer as his fingers worked deeper into his chassis, under his grill, into the sensitive spots where transformation cogs rested.

"Damn mech," Jazz's voice barely caught his attention, other than to fuel the fantasy that was quickly coalescing in his processors. The stilling of movement did garner a bit more, and Prowl made the effort to focus on what was going on. "What gives?"

"My patience," Prowl rumbled, his fingers still working their way deeper. Optics locked for too long a moment, broken only when Prowl threw his helm back with a ragged moan. His chassis arched slightly as his full focus was taken by the energy racing through his circuits. Without thinking of it, his EM field reached out in and effort to tangle with the one it desired.

With a soft venting of a sigh Jazz knelt on the berth, gasping as he felt the full brunt of Prowl's field. His engine revved hard and his field pushed back in response, every system immediately keyed up. Why had he kept saying no? Right, he didn't believe that it was the right move. Trying to protect Prowl. But could it be wrong when Prowl got _this_ revved up looking at him?

Another primal sound escaped Prowl. His optics flashed brightly, then locked on the slightly smaller black and white above him.

Jazz couldn't miss the imploring in that expression and his spark clenched. He shoved his remaining reservations to the back of his processor and caught Prowl's hands, stopping his efforts. The irate growl Prowl gave was largely swallowed by Jazz's mouth, and silenced as the kiss depended, their glossa tangling and exploring.

Slowly Jazz withdrew from the kiss and looked down at Prowl. "Roll over," the former saboteur purred, swooping in for a brief kiss to stop any protests. "It'll be worth indulging me," he promised with a wicked grin.

Prowl's engine revved hard and he complied, spreading his doorwings flat, dataports exposed and legs parted, offering whatever Jazz would take.

"Damn mech," Jazz didn't hold back the lustful appreciation in his voice as he slid one hand down Prowl's spinal strut from the base of his helm to his aft and then teased between his spread legs. "Hardly know where ta start."

Prowl pushed his hips up into Jazz's hand and slid his interface panel open with an incoherent sound of _want_.

"Don't worry, Prowler," Jazz cooed as his fingers traveled up the white back with light magnetic pulses. "I'll give ya what ya need and then some."

A low, needy growl from his engine vibrated Prowl's entire frame as he pressed upwards into the contact, only to collapse with a startled cry when Jazz sent a powerful magnetic burst into his doorwing joints. Another, softer burst into a sweep of the doorwings made the mech writhe and dig his fingers into the soft metalomesh berth, moaning incoherently at the sensation and charge building quickly in his circuits.

"J-Jazz!" He desperately tried to move his doorwings out of the other's touch. It was too fast, too soon! He didn't want to overload from this.

"Let me, let go," Jazz purred seductively in his audio as he swept another mag-pulse along the panels of Prowl's doorwings, causing the mech to tremble with need. "I promise this won't be all."

Prowl nodded and shuddered, pressing his faceplates against the berth with the next mag-pulse that assaulted his doorwings. As Jazz's fingers slid along the top edge on the way back in, he cried into the metalomesh under him, pushed into the contact and allowed his thoughts to unspool with the rush of energy.

His last coherent thought was about how hollow this felt.

* * *

Something's wrong, I can hear it in the way he keens and his engine roars with the intense overload from his doorwings. He's letting it sweep through him because I asked him to, but this isn't what he wants ... it's not what he needs. But it's all he's ever asked for, isn't it? What is he not telling me, what am I not hearing?

He's offered his dataports, so I'll use them. Once he's cooled a bit. I continue stroking his doorwings as he shudders and comes down from the high over overload, but don't give him the opening to say anything before connecting. The first rush of feeling another's systems is always heady, but this nearly knocks me back. The rawness and desperation I'm used to, but in interrogation, not the berth. Not from Prowl.

He moans and presses into the berth again, his doorwings trembling and plating hot under my fingers as I make the connection a loop. Whatever he needs, that's what he was waiting for. Specialized, purpose-built protocols not even I knew existed flash to life in an instant, rushing into my systems along with the remaining energy of his overload. If I was any less shielded from such attacks, it would have overwhelmed my defenses before I knew what hit me.

There's no malice in these programs though. They're after personal files, but not ones that have much security on them to a fellow Autobot. No security at all for Prowl ... he _knows_ what's in ... oh, that one... I hope he doesn't hit me for what's in that one. Why put so much effort into a program to retrieve information about himself though? From anyone he plugs into no less.

They leave a file in exchange. Minimally encrypted and meant to be dissected for malicious code. It's labeled 'Jazz' with his creator tag on it. A second file that Optimus created, and presumably shared with Prowl before the battle, was soon deposited next to Prowl's.

With that done, so many tensions seemed to unfurl inside him and for the first time, I can see what Prowl at ease actually means. It's an odd thing, to see such a different aspect to a mech I've known, and thought I understood, for so long. More than a bit unsettling as well.

~Don't be,~ his voice comes across the connection. He sounds calm, but the overtones and harmonics to the thought are fully of arousal and need, almost desperate to build something I don't completely understand.

He moves slowly, rolling to his back, careful of both his doorwings and the hardline connections. Face to face, my perceptions change once more as he shows me the face that goes with the emotions and sensations simmering between us. He's not hiding, not controlling his expression, but he doesn't _look_ like the need is about ready to have me pinned against the wall and ravaged until neither of us can stand.

~Show me what you want, Prowler,~ I know I'm falling back on old training, old habits, but it's all I have at the moment. I don't trust anything I thought I knew about him as I lean forward to kiss him.

I feel the answer begin to form, only to be chased away by a simple, chaste kiss. His hands come up to stroke my plating, quickly zeroing in on my sensor horns as a key hotspot. Suddenly he's kissing me, taking charge with of burst of data and power across the hardline. Both hands holding my helm in place, not that I'm fighting him as he draws me on top of him.

When was the last time I was with anyone I could even think of calling an equal?

It doesn't matter. I am now.

* * *

I can feel systems settle all across my frame and processors at the data exchange I've been too long without. It was foolish, irresponsible of me to become so accustomed to Optimus that I'm this desperate with less than half a metacycle without him. I simply was incapable of accepting the possibility that I would function longer than he would, no matter what my battle computer told me that he was at greater risk than I in every battle.

Jazz is warm in my arms, along my chassis, against my mouth. His feels good, so very good in my hands, moaning as I stroke his sensor horns.

When did I become so in need of physical contact? Of ... affection?

"P-Prowl," his voice and suddenly insistent hands are a welcome distraction from my thoughts. "Open up," he demands as his chest plates parted. The energy in the hardline connections is intense, even after two overloads. But this ... safe no longer matters. We have little to loose. If he is willing to expose himself here, I have little reason to be concerned.

* * *

"I don't see why we need this ... _Autobot_ ," a low voice hissed angrily in the half-filled conference room dominated by the city's organizers.

"You don't need me," a calm, cool, flat voice answered before her companion could, drawing all attention to the black and white mech that stood in the doorway with the chief city manager. To the mech who's very essence, from his accent to his bearing, screamed _military_ to them even without an insignia decorating his frame. "This is what Dai Atlas determined I was best suited to do for the city I now live in."

The entire room fell into an uncomfortable silence as Prowl followed Smoothstreet at the head of the table, apparently unaffected by the remarks he had heard.

"Our newest staff member is Prowl," Smoothstreet opened the meeting with a motion towards the black and white Praxian. "While he is a junior officer in this department at the moment, I expect everyone to listen when he suggests a course of action. He's been doing this job longer than most of you have been functioning and under far harsher conditions. Prowl, it is customary to introduce yourself with your formal education and previous assignments."

Prowl inclined his head and canted his doorwings down in the mixed signal of respect that most Praxians developed after working outside their own frametype for any length of time.

"My formal education was all pre-kindling," he began, fully aware he had just opened himself up for grief for the rest of his functioning about his creation. "I was commissioned as a tactical specialist for the PDF with an experimental battle computer. I served the PDF in that capacity until Optimus Prime requested my transfer to his tactical division a decaorn after the senate was destroyed."

The femme who had spoken against him glared at him. "How is it you're still functional?"

Prowl level ice blue optics on her, his features as controlled as ever. "That would be Ratchet's fault."

In the silence his answer created, Prowl continued. "I served in Prime's tactical division until his deactivation at the battle of Autobot City less than a metacycle ago."

Smoothstreet shot him a look that spoke clearly of a mixture of confusion and amusement before facing his subordinates. One, a Praxian frame painted in muted blue and flame red with a bright white chevron, made a small motion with his hand that briefly stopped Smoothstreet from speaking.

"What he's not saying is that he also handled Supply and Logistics for the Autobots for much of that time." The Chief said instead.

As Prowl moved to take a seat with the other junior officers, he flicked his doorwings in thanks and received an acknowledging flick in return.

* * *

With the meeting over, the muted blue and red Praxian waylaid Prowl with a nearly silent whistle, though he made small talk at Prowl until everyone else was gone. Useful information about Skyshard's history and duties, things the tactician appreciated knowing as much as he appreciated the wait for relative privacy.

"Okay, I saved you from whatever the boss was going to say, but what is it?" Skyshard asked politely when only Jazz was shadowing the door.

"That I eventually lead the tactical division and become the Autobot Second in Command," Prowl answered in the same polite manner, a small favor for a small favor.

"Did a Pit good job of it too," Jazz's lazy drawl interrupted Skyshard's shock.

The younger Praxian shifted his focus to the non-descript black and white visored mech. "Dare I ask who, what, you were?"

"Jazz, Autobot TIC and SpecOps commander, among other things," he shrugged. "Though I won't be doing much of either anymore. Ol' Dai Atlas is still trying to figure out what to do with me. My skills don't translate quite as well as Prowler's."

Skyshard stared between the two, trying to wrap his processors around what he was hearing. "You ... you're both like the Knights. How ... why lower yourselves?"

"We were no longer wanted," Prowl answered calmly, quietly. "The new Prime chose a new command staff. There would be more of Optimus Prime's senior officers here, but we are the only two who survived the battle."

"This, no matter what Dai Atlas decides we're good for, is an improvement over what we had on Earth," Jazz added, trying not to show his anger or sulk. "It's not like either of us is a stranger to hard labor. None of his officers were. _He_ wasn't."

Skyshard looks between the two and gave them a sad, semi-reverent smile. "I think you would both would do anything for him. I hope Dai Atlas honors you as Knights when your times comes."

"I would be happy to simply have a priest handle it," Prowl said quietly and stepped away, his doorwings flared out and high. Exactly as he'd held them as SIC.

"I've no intention of lasting long enough to need one," Jazz shook his head and fell in step with his lover.

"Has he truly not found something for you to do?" Prowl raised an optic ridge at Jazz when they were walking down the hall in relative privacy.

"Sorta," he chuckled. "He's seriously not happy about what I want to do, but I'll get through to him."

"Do I even want to know?" Prowl vented a sigh, something that very few functioning mechs recognized as highly expressive, for him.

"Well, he emphatically nixed the courtesan idea, so I'm working on entertainer of the song and dance variety," Jazz grinned mischievously.

"I'll see what I can do to convince him," Prowl said softly. "He may be more inclined to listen to me."

"Because you're so known for your honesty," Jazz snickered. "Thanks."

* * *

Prowl was not one to spend time socializing. He was even less partial to socializing in the kind of clubs that Jazz frequented when given the chance. This time was special in many ways, though. Tonight Jazz would have his first performance as an actual entertainer and nothing else since the war began. It was well worth the discomfort of sitting alone, fending off attention he absolutely did not want and explaining to confused server why he wanted standard grade, that, yes, he understood it was no less expensive, he simply did not wish to get a buzz. He ended up explaining more than he wished, more than once, but he finally got what he wanted and was left generally alone at the small table near the stage with his standard grade.

With twenty kliks left before Jazz was due to perform Prowl's proximity sensors drew his attention to the mech approaching him. He didn't even think about it; protocols active from his creation identified the mech as his current commander.

"Chief Smoothstreet," he greeted as he turned to face the mech when it became obvious Prowl's table was his destination.

"We're off duty, Prowl," the lightly built racing mech chastised him gently, in much the same way Optimus Prime had. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Instead of answering Prowl simply motioned to a nearby chair to pull over.

There was a small sound of the chair being moved, largely lost in noise of the club, and the pale purple and dark green mech was next to him, just far enough away for Praxian standards, but close enough there was no doubt they were associated in some way.

The silence between them held as a server came over to flirt with them and take Smoothstreet's drink order, a mixed high grade that would have him nicely buzzed, and continued until the drink to arrive and Smoothstreet had several sips.

"You should have said your friend was performing tonight," Smoothstreet said quietly, stating it as a simple fact despite that Prowl hadn't paid him any attention since he sat down.

"Jazz would have resented it," Prowl answered with another simple fact. "He's good enough he expects all accolades to be earned."

Smoothstreet stared at him briefly, then shook his head. "Were you two always this difficult, or was it something you learned as officers?"

"I can not speak for Jazz, however I have been told my current social skills are an exponential improvement over when I was first branded," Prowl's voice betrayed nothing of what he was feeling, but there were enough fliers paying attention that his doorwing movement didn't go unnoticed. His heavy wartime armor stood out here even more than the regulation polish he maintained among the Autobots.

"Hello Prowl, boss," Skyshard's voice reached them long after Prowl was aware of his approach. "Mind if I join you?"

"No at all," Smoothstreet smiled at the Praxian, privately hoping that he could draw Prowl out a bit more. He took his subordinate's subtle gesture to make space for him next to Prowl in stride and did so quietly.

Prowl said nothing, but a twitch of his right doorwing welcomed the other to pull up a chair.

::Just how much can you two communicate with those wings?:: Smoothstreet asked on a private comm, though he expected that Prowl and Jazz both heard it without even trying.

::Only basic, short phrases and emotions for the most part. Yes, no, thanks, this way, follow me, I rank you, you rank me, I'm happy, I'm furious, get away from me, I'm fragged off, I'm in pain, I submit, hello, that kind of thing.:: Skyshard answered easily. ::You actually recognize quiet a few as part of my chassis language, even if you don't quite realize it. You'll get used to two Praxians 'talking' with our doorwings the way we're used to fliers doing it.::

"Do you come here often, or are you here for the same reason as Smoothstreet?" Prowl asked politely.

"I do frequent the Silver Spire, particularly for new talent night," Skyshard said easily as he sipped a half-finished high grade. "It's just rare when I know them beforehand."

Prowl flicked a doorwing in acknowledgement and fell silent, his optics on the stage where the previous act, a classic dancer that reminded him of Mirage's grace but had none of the spy's natural poise, was leaving to significant approval.

"All right, now for the next new talent of the night," the announcer called out as the crowd settled down. "A mech that is band, dancer and singer in one, Sirenis!"

::Sirenis?:: Skyshard asked on the ultra short range comm, meant to only reach those at his table.

::Jazz is the designation he took when he went into Ops. He claims to not remember his original designation, and I'm inclined to believe it. This is his opportunity to reinvent himself into a mech he likes. He's beginning with his designation. His frame will see a rebuild as soon as he earns the funds. The only non-vital he intends to keep are his vocalizer and sound system.::

Skyshard flicked his doorwings in understanding and fell silent as Sirenis took center stage, commanding attention with nothing more than his presence. As out of place as his simple black and white Polyhexian war-frame was, there wasn't a trace of war manner in the being the entire club watched sway seductively on the stage.

"Thank you for the opportunity to entertain you all, my mechs and femmes!" Sirenis called out, his rich, smooth voice reaching everyone without outside amplification. "I have a set of twenty songs tonight, the last five of which will be taken as audience requests!"

The first song was a popular one, given a slight remake in making the music more complex. It made Prowl smile faintly, his doorwings twitching almost imperceptibly to the base beat. A klik later they were twitching in pleasure intense enough it was a fight to keep it from cascading into an overload.

::Does he know?:: Skyshard asked privately.

::He does now,:: Prowl finally rerouted enough sensor input to enjoy the music as music and not an interface stimulant. ::I doubt he more than suspected before.:: He paused slightly. ::I didn't know the full extent.::

Skyshard considered Prowl briefly, then focused on the stage for the remainder of the song, his doorwings flittering with pleasure.

::Your friend is quite talented,:: Smoothstreet commented after three songs, each popular but of very different styles.

::Yes,:: Prowl's pleasure at the complement colored his voice slightly. ::I have long suspected that he had been quite a successful entertainer before he jointed the Autobots. It is good to see him enjoying himself so much.::

::How can you tell?:: Skyshard asked as Jazz came to a new song, one well-suited to dance to. ::He always seems happy, unless he's furious.::

Prowl chuckled, not that it could be heard over the music, and sipped his standard grade energon. ::More than forty-five thousand vorns of working closely with him. He's a gifted actor and natural grifter, but after so long one learns how to see past it if there is incentive enough to learn.::

::You had incentive,:: Skyshard didn't really ask.

::I did much of SpecOps mission planning long before either of us were of high rank. My background in the PDF as a SWAT tactician was particularly suited to transition to SpecOps planning,:: Prowl answered anyway. ::It was critical to take the state of processor into account even more than the state of repair of those going. If I failed to determine and account for every contingency, good mechs died.::

The table fell silent, one all too aware of the burden of his function and the other two grasping, and failing, to comprehend how to continue with such an existence.

Eventually, after finishing half his next drink, Smoothstreet found his voice. ::I'm glad you found your way here. To have a few vorns of peace after such an existence.::

Prowl tore his optics away from a dancing Jazz to look at his new superior and inclined his head and wings faintly in thanks. ::I am as well.::

* * *

_2.4 metacycles - Prowl_

Optimus Prime has been alive for over two metacycles and no hint that he wishes contact with any of the Autobots, former or active, living in New Crystal City.

I am not sure if I am pleased or disappointed, though I am relieved beyond any reason. It means that he has let me go. He will not order me to return. He will not order me to resume the treatments that extend my functioning. That could change any orn, but it is unlikely he will summon me if he has not already.

* * *

_5.9 metacycles_

"Prowl," the femme who's been the most against me in the unit, calls me to remain as our shift ends.

I do not like her and she dislikes me, however I have not allowed it to impact my efficiency. I have dealt with far more difficult that her in my functioning. Those who are important, those who rank us both, approve of my presence and efforts on their behalf.

"Yes, Sunbeam?" I turn to face her impassively and hide the surprise at her uncertain expression.

"Peace?" she offers her hand and the small package in it. "Umm, it's kinda been slipped that you and Jazz are saving up to have your frames rebuilt. I, umm, organized a donation pool to help with it."

"There was no need." I can't help but say. Dimly, I realize she means it as an apology, a peace offering to the wronged party. Likely something her own coding, or perhaps this society, expects of her.

_Accept it. She's not a Con._

There are orn I wonder just how much extra code Jazz has slipped into me over the vorns. He's good enough, I expect, to do so without my notice.

I take the offered datachip and slip it into my arm slot. The information that scrolls up indicates she has done far more than collected a few credits. The full cost has been covered for both of us, my time scheduled off, confirmation that Jazz has no engagements and the procedures have been confirmed by those doing the work. It is even the specialist that Jazz selected to do his work; the best the city has to offer. Jazz must have at least an idea this was doing to happen.

"I thank you," I hear myself murmured, sure my shock is clear in my doorwings and features.

She shifts uncomfortably before me and I wonder what prompted this. She reminds me far too much of when Optimus demanded Sideswipe apologize to me. He knew that if I did not believe his sincerity, he would face Prime's wrath. What does she face if I do not accept?

I do not desire to find out.

"Sunbeam, thank you," I make sure my voice is firm, very close to what Jazz likes to call my SIC voice, and know I have calculated the needed response correctly when she relaxes. "Does Jazz know?"

"Some of it," she nods with a shy smile. "I needed to know a few things to make the arrangements."

* * *

_A few orns later - Prowl_

"What do you think?" Sirenis' smile could light up a city as he turns around in front of me.

He's still a white mech with black, blue and red highlighting his frame and a visor, though there is much more blue and his visor now matches his original optic color of emerald green. I recognize his face, somewhat, but the rest of his frame ... it's all sweeps and angles, a form of elegance, grace and most definitely not for war. He is a dancer now.

Even with his new appearance I see what it does not show. Like my design, he still has some armor, his advanced hydraulics and several hidden weapons beyond those he displays openly in his performances.

But to answer his question, I find myself thinking about what he actually wants to know _from me_.

"You are beautiful," my own voice sounds odd, the inflection much stronger than I intended, but he beams even brighter and those who did the work looked very pleased by my response as well.

He moves close, every motion pure seductive grace like I've rarely seen him employ. My vents hitch as his fingers, now far more slender, cup my face.

"They say I'm good to go," he purrs in what is still very clearly Jazz's voice, his mouth nearly touching mine. "How about we spend the rest of the orn exploring how this chassis responds?"

I'm sure I nod, but I barely register anything past the touch of his lips on mine.

* * *

_The next orn - Sirenis_

"Have you ever worked this extensively on a Praxian before?" Sirenis asked calmly, though everyone knew there was nothing calm about him despite appearances.

"No, however we have rebuilt fliers," the lead medic, Windsweep, answered smoothly, then regarded Sirenis carefully. "Do you wish to observe?" he asked, extending an unheard of courtesy.

Much of the nearly invisible tension drained away with a smile of thanks. "Thanks, my mech. I've watched every rebuild he's had, doesn't seem right to not be around for this one."

Windsweep smiled and put a hand on the shoulder he had crafted only a few orns earlier. "Stay out of the way and you may watch this one."

* * *

_16 joors later - Windsweep_

If these two aren't bonded, they should be. I swear to Primus I have never seen two mechs so protective of each other. They keep it as subtle as any Knight, but to anyone used to Knights, it's unsettling to feel how willing they are to commit violence for the other. Especially Sirenis. The mech still hasn't realized he no longer lives in a war zone. He was a killer before. He is still a killer, for all he pretends he has given it up.

"Just keep away and be still," Sirenis orders, and it is an order. I'll grant him that it's a good order. Anything with that many environmental sensors in their wings and combat protocols is likely to power up from reconstructive surgery in battle mode.

This mech is no different.

Systems hum to full power, directed at wide-range sensors first, then weapons, then mobility ... _then_ higher processor functions. Exactly the way Dai Atlas powered up. Same way his creation did for that matter, though Wing hadn't been nearly as volatile under any conditions.

"Hay, Prowl," Sirenis was the first to step close, no doubt far more attuned to his companion's systems than any of us. "How'ya feeling?"

There is a longer-than expected pause, though Prowl's optics are at full power and locked on his companion.

"Acceptable," he eventually answers. "It is ... disconcerting ... to have so little armor."

A huge smile crosses Sirenis' face as he pulls Prowl to a sitting position and presses close for a kiss intimate enough that I look away. I can hear hands explore the new form I've given his lover.

"I know, Prowler," Sirenis purred softly, his engine revving sharply in despite. "You'll get used to it, and you look _amazing_."

"That not why..."

A long, intimate kiss stops the statement and a reset my vocalizer noisily, hoping to separate them long enough clear Prowl to leave so they continue in their quarters and not my work bay.

"Later, Jazz," I hear Prowl murmur as he gently pushes the other away and turns his now elegantly swept helm to look at me. "All my systems are active and report fully functional."

He may _look_ like he's from New Crystal City now, but unlike Sirenis, he'll never speak like he is. That Autobot-Iacon accent is distinctive here.

"That is good," I smile and step forward, still well aware of his companion's location and state of readiness. Trust clearly does not come easily for either of them, but especially not for Sirenis. The scans are routine, simple, and all come back positive for his release. I can't help but wonder which of us is more relieved when I usher them out, extracting promises to return if anything is amiss.

* * *

"Don't you dare turn away!" Sirenis snarled, but his tone was pure hurt as he grabbed for the slightly larger mech attempting to walk out of their berth room. "I deserve an explanation."

Prowl turned to face him, still unsettled by the difference in appearance even after a full metacycle. His own appearance was still odd to polish and maintain. He had always thought himself highly adaptable to such things; they should not be important. Yet they were. He'd never quiet adapted to his or Optimus' Earth forms either. It seemed that anyone who spent time in his berth was locked into a form and he couldn't quite adapt to changes to them.

But that isn't what is bothering him now.

This has been an act of pure, irrational fear that not even his infamous battle computer can sidetrack for long.

"Prowl," Sirenis reached out, relieved when he was allowed to place a hand firmly on the other mech's shoulder. "Talk to me, please." He brought his emerald green visor up, displaying his optics, his vulnerability, to the mech who shared so much of his functioning. "What's wrong?" He carefully slid a little closer, his free hand coming up to cup the other's face. "I can't fix it if I don't know."

"There is nothing to fix," Prowl whispered, his vents hitching and systems heating just being this intimately close to his lover. Damn his need for physical contact to the Pit. "You've done nothing wrong. No one has done anything wrong."

"But you're still trying to run. Don't run from me, Prowler," his voice was pure desperation.

Prowl closed his optics and leaned into the warm hand against his cheek. When had Jazz gained so much control over him? This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid!

A low, shaky vent escaped Prowl before he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against the lover he'd been reluctant to touch. He pressed his mouth against *Jazz's*, felt the other mech kiss him back and melt into his arms, and simply let his systems have their way. Heat flared brightly in his spark, flowing outwards to prickle against every sensor he had.

He pulled his head back, almost reluctant, and slid his arms a little tighter around the strangely familiar form. "Jazz..." he lowered his forehelm to touch Sirenis' ... Jazz's ... his lover's. His lover's forehelm. "I'm so close to being free. I ... did not want to be so close to you that you would ... stop me."

"Prowler, I'm not going to." Sirenis looked up, meeting icy blue optics solidly. "I know how long you've wanted the treatments to end. How much they hurt you. I will never ask that of you."

"Thank you," he murmured softly. It did little to quell the terror deep in his processors, but it did help his battle computer and logic center to ignore the majority of it.

"How long?" Sirenis asked with a tender, exploratory kiss, his fingers working to heighten the arousal building between them. "When will it no longer be an issue?"

Prowl moaned and tipped his head back as Sirenis' lips and glossa moved to his throat. "Nine and a half vorns."

"Then when the orn comes, we'll celebrate, okay?" Sirenis rumbled throatily. "You'll finally be able to relax."

Reference to the ritual in First Binding by antepathy  
pt 1: (community .livejournal shadow_vector/95090 .html)  
pt 2: (community .livejournal shadow_vector/97326 .html)

The rest of her Drift/Wing is my canon, BTW.  
(community .livejournal shadow_vector/tag/wing)

* * *

**  
**

This Winter Won't Last Forever 13 

* * *

Ten vorns.

It's been the fastest and slowest ten vorns of my existence.

Prowl's remained on edge, expecting that at any moment either Prime or I would appear and demand he resume the treatments to prolong his functioning.

I have to admit, I've wanted to more than once. I have no doubt Optimus would dearly love to have his SIC back, though Mirage and Bumblebee, and half to my surprise the twins, have made sure he leaves Prowl alone until now. Until it matters little if he does order Prowl back to the Autobots. I've learned that too. Prowl loved his work as much as he loves anything. Probably as much as that messed up processor _can_ love.

If he hadn't already been dead, I was ready to grab the first ship to Cybertron and take Ratchet apart bolt by bolt when I worked out just how much the mess of a mech Prowl is was his fault. Even _I_ know not to fiddle with systems once they get too complicated. If a specialized upgrade has a 'don't add this too' warning, there's a damn good reason for it.

Prowl was condemned to be tormented for the remainder of his functioning once the emotional protocols were installed. I feel my fists clench at my sides and a low growl rumble from my upgraded vocalizer. It's enough to catch the attention of my manager, who slides over and puts a gentle hand on my arm.

"We don't need to practice now," her voice is as lovely and soft as her frame. She is a creature that would have no hope of surviving in my world, yet fate has allowed her to grace my existence for a time. She's offering to let me spend time with Prowl. She may not grasp what's going on or why, but I'm too famous in the city for it not to come out that he's nearing the end, while I am not.

"No, now is when I need to _perform_ ," I shake my head and force my hands to unclench. "New songs come, it burns off the extra charge."

"All right, Sirenis," she inclines her head in acceptance of my statement. She's learned, the hard way, that it is simply not a good idea to do anything but capitulate when I say I need something. Even with my combat and Ops protocols decommissioned, a war's worth of surviving has left me with a propensity towards violence that few outside the Knights can grasp.

Strangely enough, the Knights have done more to help us, and all the former Autobots that have come, than any other group here. They're warriors. They understand how to control and channel what we've become into something useful. Not everyone can take to their methods, but I've found more peace in their contemplative (and occasionally masochistic) meditation and sparing than I have in anything save dancing to loud music.

Prowl has too. It's been good to see the results, even if seeing him through some of the meditations is enough to completely freak me out. He's calmer afterwards, but in a good way, not the cold, suppressing everything way he did in the war.

It was during one of my lessons that it hit me. Bound with a red rope, my arms stretched overhead and behind me, kneeling and facing outward from the wall. I wasn't playing anymore. I wasn't with Prowl for mutual comfort. I'd be with him even if we no longer shared a berth. I'd try to be with him even if he no longer spoke to me. I'd hold him close to my spark even when he's gone.

That was three vorn ago. It resulted in three of most painful, distressing vorns that I've had in a long, long time.

I won't go back on my promise. I won't ask him to live for me. I can't ask him to be anything more than he is to me. Public or private, he's made it clear by words, hardline and spark that as important as I am to him, he doesn't _love_ me.

I know better, but there is nothing I can do to make him understand and I curse Ratchet and Prime all over again for doing that to him, for not listening to him. For not respecting him as a sentient being who deserves to choose his own life.

After one vigil I had over his bound, shaking, nearly broken body and processor he shared memories with me while he used my body to settle himself. Even having gone through it many times, I still do not understand why those long nights of self-evaluation invariably lead to an undeniable need to interface.

But that memory. I knew of it, or ones like it. It was repeated after every treatment when the door to his quarters closed and locked.

The first time was the most potent though. He didn't understand what was happening to him, not really. Emotional protocols freshly installed, the agony of having his spark injected with fresh energy to keep it strong long after its time. All he could find in himself to do was to sink to the floor right there in front of the door, curl into as tight a ball as he could manage and break down. Trembling, sobbing, keening ... all those emotional releases activated, but all they did was distress him more. He'd never been so out of control in his functioning, and he understood one emotion out of the myriad going on.

He understood fear for the first time. He learned what hate felt like.

I wish I'd known it was happening, that _anyone_ who had known had cared what it was doing to him. Maybe ... he would have understood something other than fear and hate that night.

* * *

The celebratory party was unlike anything Jazz or Sirenis had ever put on. The music was classic and low, the conversations fairly quiet, the high grade was good quality and flowed freely but no one was getting very rowdy and every mech there was invited from a select list of those who had been important in Prowl's functioning. It was intimate and somber while still being a celebration.

Sirenis called it a wake after the human custom.

Prowl and Bluestreak called it a living funeral, and Prowl was still shaken to have one, though Bluestreak agreed it had much in common with the wake.

Along the walls and all around the private room were all the promotions, awards and indicators important events in Prowl's functioning, good and bad. From his first promotion within the Praxian Defense Force to being branded an Autobot to the destruction of Praxis to the honors Rodimus Prime gave to the certificate of recognition his current department have given him last vorn. Even the important events in his relationship with Optimus Prime and how important Jazz/Sirenis had become in the last ten vorns were on display in some way.

His entire functioning put on display, as seen by those who cared about him.

The guest list was yet another surprise. He'd expected, at most, those who lived in New Crystal City. Sirenis, Bluestreak, possibly Red Alert and Inferno, if the former Security Director was feeling stable that orn. He was not expecting a shuttle worth of mechs, many from before the ARK, and Skyshard from his current work. It was even more shocking to him when he learned that each of them had argued hard for the right to be here, that convincing both Jazz and Bluestreak was required for the invite to be extended.

The frontliner twins greeted him right off the shuttle, all but crushing him in their enthusiasm when they caught up to him outside his office. His coworkers seemed to find it entirely too amusing to watch him try to squirm his way out of the double embrace and excited, rapid-fire Autobot comments and questions he was given no opportunity to answer.

" _Twins_!" Prowl finally resorted to the voice he'd long used to gain their compliance. It had the desired effect, but also made everyone in audio range focus on him. No one here had heard him use that tone before. It was completely at odds with what they thought of him. Their Prowl did not command. Their Prowl most certainly did not command Autobot frontliners and have them obey almost instantly.

"So are _they_ treating you right?" Sideswipe demanded with a glare into the office where several sets of optics were on him.

"Yes, they are," Prowl drew the red warrior's attention away from the civilians. "It is ... pleasant ... here. Why are you here?"

The twins looked at him with hurt expressions. "For you living funeral," Sunstreaker said.

"You have no idea how much of a fight we had with Blue to convince him we were worthy of being here," Sideswipe added, but both frontliners relaxed when they recognized the look of 'I wasn't told of this event' on Prowl's features.

"I see," Prowl's voice was low, calm, and to the two frontliners, warning that someone was going to pay for their failure to keep his appraised of events. "You may wish to hide from Jazz after my shift is over."

"Right," Sideswipe nodded sharply before grabbing his brother and dashing off.

Smokescreen came by a joor later, sweeping by with a cheery greeting that ended in a long, heated kiss that left Prowl too stunned to react before the other Praxian was gone.

 _That_ had generated questions that Prowl found he had no answers for but a growing sense of dread in his spark. That feeling of dread only deepened when Sirenis was there when he got shift and promptly commandeered him for too many joors of pampering and dinner in some of the finest establishments New Crystal City had to offer.

What was his ... lover ... up to?

Still, Prowl allowed himself to be led, finding the evening very pleasant despite his uneasiness.

"Hay, I promised we'd celebrate when you didn't have to worry about being recalled, babe," Sirenis' voice was chipper and playfully with a sultry note; a perfect match for Jazz before his post-war conversion.

"Oh," Prowl murmured. "I ... but why have so many mechs I haven't seen in vorns come?"

"Well, Bluestreak was really insistent on a Praxian custom and the more I looked into it, the more it seemed like a really good idea," he edged around the topic. "It'd mean we won't have to wait the hundred vorns custom demands."

"I never cared about custom, Jazz," Prowl fixed his gaze on the lovely, exotic, mostly-white mech walking next to him. "I was never part of that society."

"But Blue is, and what Blue thinks matters to you," Sirenis sighed. "The thing is after a living funeral he'd be publicly okay with us being an _us_ , cause after that, it's all about indulging and comforting the dying mech. The usual standards don't apply."

"And how does this explains the mechs from the ARK?" Prowl prompted again.

"It's part of the deal. The folks who were important in your life and where you were important in their lives are supposed to be there. It's not just the ARK mechs, though I'm not surprised they're the ones who already visited," Sirenis chuckled, leaning lightly into the small contact he was allowed in public. "And now that it's over, give a special thanks to Mirage, Bee and the Twins. They kept Prime away."

Prowl froze for a nanoklik, staring at his lover. "You're serious."

"Of course," he nodded. "I knew you'd go with him if he'd asked no matter how badly you didn't want it he'd order the treatments to start again, so I asked Mirage to pull a few strings to make sure he didn't until he couldn't. Bee ran Ops interference until the Twins got wind of it, then they ran frontliner interference. Prime never stood a chance," he grinned.

"Thank you," Prowl murmured, pausing to draw Sirenis into his arms and give him a long, chaste kiss.

* * *

Prowl murmured wordlessly as he stroked Sirenis' chestplates as he held the slightly smaller mech from behind. Their systems were still connected, the buzz of an intense overload still tingling between them.

"Have you ever wanted a sparkling?" Prowl whispered, his systems calm and balanced.

Sirenis froze, then looked over his shoulder to stare at the other mech as he rolled the rest of the way over to face him. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Of course," Prowl lowed his forehelm to meet Sirenis'. "I would like to give something positive to the future. It will mean someone else will have to raise it, however. I no longer have the time to, even if I do have more than enough resources to ensure a good upbringing."

"If you're asking if I'll help raise your sparkling," Sirenis tipped his helm up to look Prowl in the optics. "I'd love to," he shifted in to kiss him soundly. "But that means a trip to Cybertron, dealing with Prime, so much paper..."

Prowl shut him down with a kiss. "I intend to go the other route. To carry the new spark."

Tension froze Sirenis' frame, confusion and concern rippling along the hardline connection.

"Doesn't that require a bond, and a whole lot of luck?" Sirenis whispered, trying to wrap his processors around just what Prowl was suggesting.

A low, soft chuckle answered him. "No, and only if you don't know exactly how it works," Prowl smiled sadly, his thumb ghosting across his lover's cheek. "There are the occasional advantage to not being raised in normal society. I have no preconceptions about such things. Merely research."

"Okay ... so, um, who's going to be the other..." his voice drifted off, half terrified of the answer, his processors flashing back to how many times he'd shared sparks with another mech, never thinking anything could come of it. Did he have any sparklings out there he didn't know about? If he didn't, did that mean his spark couldn't create? That it was damaged somehow? He'd been through enough experiments, done enough to himself over the course of the war that it was possible.

"Jazz," Prowl's firm voice drew him out of his thoughts. "It is improbable to the point of being statistically impossible to create a new spark by casual merging. Even intentional efforts to create one without a bond are next to impossible."

"Are ... are you proposing to me?" Sirenis whispered.

A shadow passed across Prowl's face.

"No. We are not compatible that way." He said calmly, his voice nearly emotionless, all feedback to Sirenis through the hardline closed off. "Even if we were, I would not condemn you to a broken bond so soon after forging it."

"Who then?" Sirenis' voice trembled, honestly not sure he wanted to hear. Maybe it would be better if Prowl just came back one day sparked, or with a sparkling. He knew he had no right to feel this way. They were barely acknowledged as lovers, even in private there had never been a promise of fidelity. Pits, it wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd want.

Prowl planted a soft kiss between the sweeping, elegant sensory horns that had taken the place of Jazz's stubby black ones. "When you are sure you want to know, I will tell you. Until then, know that it will know you as its creator."

Sirenis nodded shakily and tipped his helm back to claim Prowl's mouth in a kiss that was all about comfort.

* * *

Prowl reviewed himself in the full-surround mirror Jazz had installed in their quarters, checking his appearance once more. He was counting on Optimus Prime's preferences to have changed little in the past thirteen vorns. Something his battle computer told him was 93.7794% likely. His Prime was unlikely to change, even after an extended visit to the Matrix and the end of the war as a serious threat.

So he had put his infamous attention to detail and planning to seducing a mech he understood nearly as well as he understood himself. This evening was to be the culmination of a plan set in motion the moment he'd learned Optimus was alive and once more Prime. A plan that had been generated when Prowl had first been taken to the Prime's berth and refined at least once a metacycle since.

Jazz had been courted, fed select truths calculated to trigger his protective protocols without turning him violent. That it was emotionally painful to manipulate the former saboteur was irrelevant. He had suffered far more painful choices and plans for the greater good.

Upgrades had been engineered and installed. Designs originally from Jazz and Mirage, devices to make it difficult for another mech to think or remember what happened to them. Then the ones that would make it far easier for him to generate a new spark when he. It didn't matter that every joor he had it turned on was likely to take a vorn or more from his already short life expectancy. The odds he'd survive the spark separation when his sparkling was placed in its protoform were less than 0.0931%. From the moment he turned the device on, his spark was destined to extinguish within half a vorn if Primus had any mercy.

One spark near the end of its fire in exchange for one just igniting. Prowl could not conceive of a better way to extinguish.

He reached out to touch his own reflection. "It's time, Prowl. Time for everything you worked for to happen. It's time to take charge of your own destiny."

* * *

Optimus Prime relaxed on the wide, long berth in the quarters that Dai Atlas had offered him for his stay. There was no mistaking how unwelcome he was by the leadership of New Crystal City, but this was hardly the first hostile government he'd won over. He did not intend it to be the last.

Yet neither leader had any doubt that politics was a distant second on the Prime's list of things to do. He was here to see his Autobots, and he had. All but two. Jazz had left a message with Mirage that stated in no uncertain terms that he did not wish to meet his Prime. Prowl had requested to see him in private. The tone of his voice was rich with desire to the mech who had become familiar with how Prowl expressed arousal over many vorns.

Just the memory replay of that short message made his circuits tingle and spark burn pleasantly. Ultra Magnus was good for tension relief and a willing audio receiver, but he was not Prowl.

Right on time the door pinged Prowl request for admittance and Prime didn't even get off the berth before sending the command to the door to open. The mech that stepped though carried himself the way Prowl did, had the same red chevron and mostly white paint, but that was the end of the comparison. This was an exotically elegant creation of the farthest outpost of Cybertronian society.

"Prime," Prowl's calm, even voice washed over him when the door cycled closed. "Thank you for seeing me."

He sat up slightly and took in the new frame his former SIC and lover now sported. It was nearly the antithesis of the Praxian's war-time frame, but utterly in tune with the local standards.

"The look suits you, in its way," he rumbled softly, extending a hand to the smaller mech as he approached. "Mirage's design, or Jazz?"

"I left the aesthetics to a local designer, though I have few doubts that Mirage, Jazz and Bluestreak all spoke to him," Prowl said simply as he stepped forward, taking Prime's hand and joining him on the berth. "It would have been overly rude to refuse the gift from my new coworkers. They only wished to help me fit in."

Whatever Optimus was thinking of saying vanished from his processors when Prowl climbed into his lap, leaned forward to press their chests together and kissed him soundly. His glossa slid across Prime's lip plates, seeking admittance. It was granted, Optimus opening his mouth as he wrapped his arms around the lightly armored, highly sculpted frame of the mech and spark he had so long depended on.

Their sparks hummed and pulsed in their crystal chambers, pressing against their cages to try and force the mechs to open their chest plates, bring the spark cases forward and open them. It was a draw neither mech desired to resist, filling the large room with the sounds of transformation and heavy chest plates sliding.

"I missed you," Prowl whispered, his entire chassis shaking with need as he pressed closer, his multi-part doorwings straining outward to press into the powerful hands on them as Prowl lowered his chest even before Prime's was completely open. Their sparks lunged at each other with the familiarity of two thirds of the war in each other's company and mutual dependence for much of it.

Prime fumbled for a data cable only to have his hand batted away and the merge deepened until they both lost all track of anything but the intense pleasure coursing through their systems.

* * *

"Let'm see!" Sirenis all but pounced on Prowl when the other mech walked into their shared quarters, abandoning the bookfile he'd been reading, a grin as wide as Cybertron on his face.

"See what?" Prowl paused, regarding his lover warily.

"The new spark, of course," Sirenis flickered his rich green visor in the equivalent of an optic roll. "I know you met Prime."

Prowl paused, resetting his optics as he scrambled to think of how Sirenis knew.

"Prowl, I'm still smart, nosey and have a long functioning of putting pieces together," he crossed his arms over his chassis. "You've had three mechs in your berth that are still functioning. I'm incompatible. Sunstreaker would have _freaked_ , and trying with a twin-spark is dicey at best. Prime just visited and you've been with him." He shifted to eager again. "So did it work? I want to see the sparkling I'm going to raise."

A low, soft vent and Prowl reached out to draw Sirenis against him, planting a kiss on his forehelm. "You are incorrigible."

"I know," he snuggled against the white planes of Prowl's chest, playing his fingers along the seam that had opened so frequently for him for pleasure. "I want to see my sparkling," he affected a pout. "I never though I'd say that," he grinned goofily.

"You don't even know if it worked," Prowl replied.

"You wouldn't be here if it didn't," Sirenis rumbled his engine. "You'd still be in his berth, making his circuits sizzle."

"Instead of yours," he murmured, stroking his lover's back and sensor-rich doorwing arches. "I regret it could not be your energy that created it."

"Hush," Sirenis pressed a kiss on his mouth. "It's _mine_ , you hear me? No more talk about someone else sparking our little one. I want to see'm."

Prowl chuckled softly and pushed Sirenis back a bit so his chest plates and spark chamber could open unhindered.

"Where ... _oh_!" Sirenis gasped as his optics focused in on the tiny ball of light lazily orbiting Prowl's. "Oh, he's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so," Prowl left his chest open, pleased that the mech who would raise the sparkling was taking such a strong liking to it so quickly. It was far more than he dared anticipate, even though his battle computer gave it an 87.9599% probability.

* * *

He wasn't sure who had let the news slip only two orns after Prime had left. Theoretically, only Sirenis and Soft Touch knew. Mirage no doubt expected it but did not have confirmation yet. Bluestreak was expected to work it out, but not for several decaorns yet.

His co-workers? He hadn't anticipated them to work it out until he resigned a decaorn before the sparkling was due to separate. At that point he would all but be required to tell them.

It took him less than two kliks after being mobbed by excited co-workers to work out that his appointment with Soft Touch had made the local news feed. He had failed to take into account Sirenis' fame. It was not _Prowl_ that was in the news, but Sirenis' bonded.

He swore fluently in dozens of languages, a vitriol that would teach Ratchet a few lessons if it had been out loud and the medic around. Externally, he accepted the congratulations with his usual stiff grace and did his best to deflect as many of the questions as he could.

::Jazz. Find out who supplied the information on this morning's story about us and _hurt_ them,:: Prowl growled through the encrypted private comm line. ::That is an unacceptable breach of security.::

::Aw, babe, it's the price of fame,:: the soft, soothing croon replied. ::I'm talk of the town, professionally and privately. Have been for vorns now.::

::Jazz.:: He growled again, more than a bit of his fury slipping into the single word.

::All right, babe. I'll make sure they know that anything to do with you is going to be taken poorly,:: Sirenis soothed him, humming softly over the line until Prowl calmed down.

No one around either of the lovers had a clue about the conversation or its contents, thanks to their long familiarity of carrying on multiple conversations at once.

* * *

When Sirenis heard the tone of his carrying lover as Prowl demanded an Ops-suitable response for leaking sensitive information he vented silently and opened a second encrypted line to Soft Touch.

::Hey Doc. I don't supposed you checked whether his military protocols were on line or not during the checkup?::

::No,:: her response held a distinct note of 'why should I have' in it. ::What happened?::

::He's overreacting a _wee_ bit to the story about us this morning. I'm pretty sure all his combat protocols are active and considering most of the universe a threat at the moment. Just be happy that he's more fragged about a data leak than being touched for now. Even in that frame he's deadly to most folks here.::

::Can you get him to the Knight's medical ward without having him lash out?:: she asked carefully.

::Yeah. No problem,:: Sirenis said as he closed the line with Prowl. ::You have enough clout to get us quartered there while he's carrying? They can handle him without damaging him too much if he snaps.::

::In this case, I definitely do,:: Soft Touch said with conviction. ::It's for the safety of the population, after all. You get him there, I'll handle the politics.::

* * *

Skyswept, the mech who had been assigned to assist Jazz and Prowl adapt to civilization, responded with some concern to the Knights medical ward. Soft Touch had never summoned him before, but it required no wits to realize it was in connection with his wards in some way. From the news feed, it was likely because one of them was carrying a new spark and there were complications with their dormant combat and military protocols. The pair had never completely left those behind, unlike most of their kind that came to the city to escape and heal. He couldn't blame them either.

::Skyswept, please hurry,:: Soft Touch's voice was laced with distress. ::Prowl requires _careful_ subduing.::

::Understood,:: he replied and hurried his steps to a full run. Reflexes of long training kept him from so much as brushing against anyone in his path, even when he was forced to leap and glide to get past a group.

A lack of the sounds of battle would have relieved a civilian, but not a Knight. Skyswept knew it meant either a standoff, or that his charges had inflicted enough damage that everyone had gone still. After nearly fourteen vorns in the city, they were no longer under full time supervision. They were considered citizens now. Yet as the one native to New Crystal City who had the most intimate knowledge of the pair, Skyswept never lost sight of the fact that they were both deeply troubled mechs with an unimaginably long and personally painful history of violence in response to violence. It still amazed him some orns how they managed to function as well as they did in the general population.

He carefully stepped into the medical ward, scanners and optics taking in the standoff. Prowl's tri-arch doorwings were flared out and high, a mark of anger in his frametype as much as a flier's. He was a little surprised to see Sirenis pressed against Prowl's chestplates, making some kind of effort to calm the slightly larger mech down. If he didn't know without a doubt that the pair were not bonded, he'd be quite willing to believe the general assumption that they were. It wasn't as if either of them corrected anyone, only denying it when asked directly.

Three sets of optics moved to him, two of them staying there.

::Prowl _is_ carrying, but this is excessive even for that,:: Soft Touch said quietly, gradually backing up to give the three warriors.

Skyswept recognized what was in the blue optics and doorwing arches before them and relaxed, a gentle, calm smile on his face. ::It will be all right. He's frightened. It is how our kind respond to fear such as this.::

He stepped forward, his arms out, hands open and wings gently unfurled. His wing-language was not that of Praxus, nor of the Autobots or even of Vos and the Seekers, but all had enough in common to understand what another meant.

_I am not a threat._

Silent, relaxed and with both great sword and short swords in their scabbards, Skyswept took another step forward and felt Sirenis' EM field begin to relax from the tension of before. A step later and Prowl's began to settle.

"What did she attempt to do?" he asked the pair smoothly, encouraged by their response to him. He had no doubt they didn't yet trust him to protect the other, but each did trust him with himself.

"She said I was a threat and should remain here," Prowl's normally even, calm voice dropped to a near-growl, the same sound that escaped him bound by blue rope when he faced his desires. It was a sound of frustrated hatred. His armor and doorwings clicked and ruffled, flared outward in the only display of distress he found acceptable for himself.

Soft Touch immediately sent him the file of what was said and done, and the flier nodded.

"She meant that you should remain in the Knights' quarter, with warriors who understand your programming and won't injure you or the new spark by accident," Skyswept said calmly, his voice carefully pitched to the frequency and evenness that Prowl responded to nest when distressed. "Civilians don't understand not to touch or crowd. They don't have the reflexes, knowledge or armor to move away rather than be pushed."

"I have duties," Prowl objected sternly, though he was visibly calmer as his armor and voice settled.

"They should be to the sparkling," Sirenis murmured, stroking Prowl's chest over his spark chamber. "There's so much to do, even with all the pre-planning done."

Skyswept smiled and extended a hand, palm up. "Focus on the future, devote yourself to your creation while it needs you."

With a somewhat reluctant expression, Prowl nodded his acceptance of the offer.

* * *

Sirenis collapsed on the large berth, gasping for cooling air after one of the more unusual interfacings of his functioning. An aggressive Prowl was a rare but known treat. An aggressive, demanding Prowl that would only allow a one-way connection _to_ him while driving his partner through consecutive overloads without one himself was new.

It meant only one thing; the new spark was going to be a large, potent one and was already strong enough to be making demands of its carrier. It bode well for the new spark, but they both knew it significantly reduced Prowl's already negligible odds of surviving the separation.

Right now, however, Prowl's carrier protocols demanded he acquire more processed energy. The easiest way to do that was a one-way interface and overloading his partner. With his preferred partner worn out his optics focused on the Ankmorian flier reading a book file across the room. Prowl'd only slid to his feed when Skyswept put the datapad down and shifted to make space for him on the longer berth.

"It's still hungry?" Skyswept thrummed, opening his arms to welcome the other mech.

"Always," Prowl answered, one knee sliding onto the flyer's berth and leaning into the embrace, kiss and touch as easily as he did with Sirenis. He didn't dare spare any attention to how much control the secondary spark in his spark chamber was controlling him. Fully acknowledging how little control he had of himself in his final metacycles would dissolve the tenuous hold he maintained on his self-esteem and sense of independent purpose.

* * *

"Sirenis?" Skyswept caught the mech's attention on one of those rare joors that they were alone in the large quarters the three now shared.

"Mmm?" he glanced over, though didn't put down the datapad he was reading and scribbling notes on.

"Why do you do this?"

Sirenis cocked his head and put the datapad down on his lap, his focus now completely on the flier relaxing in a chair not far away. "Ya gotta be a bit more specific than that, my mech."

Skyswept smiled, though it was mostly to himself, that his charge felt safe enough with him to drop the artifacts of the performer he'd become. It felt _good_ to be trusted. "I meant many things. Why do you not correct the belief you are bonded to Prowl? Why do you accept his sparkling as your own? Why is it not yours?"

"It _is_ mine," Sirenis insisted, his tone sharp. "Doesn't matter if I kindled it with him or not, the sparkling is mine to raise."

A flicker of wings apologized. "I only wish to understand, Sirenis," he said softly. "It is a most unusual situation in many ways and I wish to be part of it."

A deep green visor target locked on him, the features under it unreadable but no doubt meant to be disturbing. A look that had been crafted over a long time to warn mechs away from the current line of conversation.

"Once Prowl's new spark separates, he won't need a sitter anymore," Sirenis said evenly, without inflection, sharp optics behind the band all but daring the young Knight to disagree.

Skyswept inclined his head and wings in agreement. "He will be with Primus once more. Which will leave you with a new sparkling that is unlikely to recognize you as it's creator for several decaorns."

"Mech," a low, vibrating snarl rumbled over his wings, making them twitch uncomfortably, a sub-voc warning generated not from a vocalizer, but by a build-in sonic weapon tuned to cause unimaginable pain and disorientation. "If you even _hint_ that I'm not its creator I will make you _disappear_. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, Jazz," Skyswept murmured. He felt no fear, not because he believed he could defeat the other mech, but because he accepted the warning for what it was; a warning and nothing more. "I have seen the specs for the sparkling. I have no doubt you can raise it well on your own. I also know that raising such a sparkling on your own is a very difficult prospect. It is one I would to help with."

Sirenis' visor flashed then the light narrowed, taking in the Ankmorian flier. "Why?"

With a soft, understanding smile, Skyswept met the suspicious gaze calmly. "A selfish reason," he admitted, knowing it would help settle the upset mech. "Sparklings are rare and precious. To be part of one's upbringing is an honor I want. To raise one of my own is an unrealistic goal anytime soon, yet if I do well with your Tsubasa it will benefit my eventual application significantly."

Sirenis cocked his head slightly. "Not to get closer to it's creator?" His tone was teasing, but also curious and more than a bit wary.

"Would I need to do more than ask for your company?" Skyswept raised an optic ridge and found it met with a low chuckle.

"No, you wouldn't," Sirenis admitted. "Especially not after Prowler's gone." He stilled for a moment, then focused on a point in space with nothing in it. "We're not bonded because we can't. Sparks aren't compatible frequencies. Same reason the new spark wasn't kindled in our berth." His optics gradually powered down. "Even if we could bond, he'd never permit it. We weren't lovers until after you'd met us. We weren't even close until after Optimus extinguished, for all our rank meant we worked together a lot. By then, he had every intention of allowing himself to extinguish. You don't bond when you're that close to the end. It causes too much pain for the survivor."

"You would though, if he'd allow it," Skyswept said softly, sure of his assessment.

Sirenis glanced at him, regarded him, then focused into space once more.

"I'd try," he murmured, far less certain than the flier. "I doubt either of us have it in us, to be that open. Our merges are surface only, and it's as deep as we want to go."

"But not as deep as you can go," Skyswept murmured, somewhat hopeful that he wouldn't get too many details. He'd gotten used to the pair's occasional descents into wartime memories and the information he'd be subjected to as they grappled with their past out loud, sometimes by recounting every detail of a mission or battle.

A low, humorous chuckle escaped Sirenis. "No, but to do that to him? No," he shook his head faintly. "Sometimes it's best not to push boundaries. Not when you know what will happen if you slip up."

Skyswept hummed, suppressing a shudder from what little he knew about when Jazz's interrogation protocols got the better of him. "I can understand that," he murmured, turning his attention to the Golden Age classic he was reading.

* * *

"You have done so well, flourished here," Prowl said with a small, soft smile for the mech that he both adored for his unabashed, unconditional affection so rare in Prowl's existence and hated for his neediness over the vorns. Prowl had invested so much time, effort and energy into the younger Praxian, far more than was even remotely logical, and yet it was one of the very few things in his too-long functioning that had occasionally brought him pleasure once he was of high rank.

Bluestreak beamed at the praise and ushered his surrogate creator into the brightly lit, artistically decorated living room of the large apartment he shared with his lover.

"So how are you doing?" Bluestreak asked, his voice much calmer and closer to a normal cadence than it had been as an Autobot.

"I am well, as is the sparkling," Prowl answered. He accepted the cube of mineral-rich mid-grade handed to him by the elegant white and dark blue mech with bright red highlights. "Thank you, Jang-in."

My unofficially adopted sparkling smiles and sits next to me on the couch, one designed for our frametype. There is sadness in his expression as he takes my free hand. As much as this captures my attention, I do not miss that his lover has retreated, left the room. Whatever Bluestreak intends to say, he wishes privacy.

"The new spark's a large one, isn't it?" his voice is low, soft and afraid, though he plunges on before I can answer much like he once did. "I remember my older brother when he carried, what he looked like. His bonded was a big mech. Nearly Skyfire's size, but a grounder. One of the largest convey-class mechs I'd ever seen, a mineral transporter for the mines. They were warned they shouldn't try, but they did anyway. Lightstep didn't survive the separation. I was only a sparkling, but I remember."

"I have a 0.1618% chance of survival at this time," I answer him honestly and watch as nearly all the progress he's made dissolves in a pain-filled keen.

Jang-in leaned out the door of his workroom at the sound, his delicate features distressed. Yet instead of coming to comfort his lover he took in the way Bluestreak has curled up and buried his face against my abdominal plates and goes back to work after glaring at me.

"Bluestreak, this is how I want it," I try to consol him with the truth. "I know you will miss me, but this is for the best. It is a new life."

"But why so soon?" he sobs out. "You had centuries!"

"Not if I want to carry," I murmur, stroking his backstrut to comfort him. "My spark is already almost too weak to sustain myself and the new spark until separation. If I waited any longer there would be a much lower probability of the new spark surviving."

"But _why_?" he sobs again, shaking uncontrollably. It brings back so many memories of helping him cope with the loss of Praxus and his family. At least this time I actually have answers for him that are more than hollow platitudes and wartime propaganda of half-truths.

"Because I wish to give something to the future," I hear my own voice tell him and realize I'm doing exactly as I did before. I do not have it in my programming to feel as strongly as he needs me to. "I am the architect of the war that destroyed Cybertron and nearly condemned our race to extinction. I do not with that to be my only legacy."

"Prowl!" His optics go wide and white with denial-horror and I realize my mistake too late.

"I am sorry Bluestreak, but that is what history will record," I continue to stroke his back gently, firmly speaking over his denials. "I was the senior tactician and a command officer for much of the war, heavily involved in Special Operations planning before that. Prime lead us, but it was with my plans, my priorities, what I anticipated."

"But..." Bluestreak tried to object, only to keen softly and fall silent for a lingering moment. Slowly he pulled himself upright and faced his adoptive creator, his mentor, his protector. "How ... you planned for this." It wasn't quite an accusation.

"To not survive to see my creation in his frame, yes," Prowl agreed, his voice low as he met Bluestreak's hurt gaze. "That is what I came to speak with you and Jang-in about."

A slow, uneasy nod greeted the statement. Bluestreak didn't break optic contact or the grip of his hands on Prowl's as he called for his lover to join them.

Prowl waited, the picture of calm patience, as Jang-in coaxed Bluestreak to sit with him, leaving the lovers facing Prowl.

"As I told Bluestreak, I will not survive Tsubasa's separation," Prowl began calmly, falling back on the mannerisms of his Enforcer and Autobot officer orns to make it through the conversation without cracking. "While Sirenis will be his creator and primary caretaker, should something happen to him, I would like Bluestreak and Mirage to become his caretakers."

"How does this involve me?" Jang-in looked between the pair curiously.

Bluestreak frowned at him. "He'd live with us ... with me. If you don't want to have a sparkling around..."

The slender artisan of New Crystal City hushed him with a gentle kiss. "Love, I would be honored to care for your brother."

"Brother?" Bluestreak cycled his optics, then giggled and grinned at Prowl. "He will be my brother, won't he? My little brother. That is _so_ cool. I don't want anything to happen to Jazz, but you can count on me. Why Mirage though? He never seemed the creator type."

"He's not. You would raise Tsuasa while Mirage would protect you both," Prowl explained, glossing over just how much the spy had already done to protect them all. "I expect Skyswept and the Twins will try to be involved as well."

Bluestreak squeaked in distress, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess I should have expected that, with the way they argued to be at your vila angula. I'm pretty sure they would have crashed the party if they didn't get an invitation. I never realized how much you meant to them."

"I hadn't either," Prowl admitted quietly. "We were a small crew. It should not be as surprising as it was that many mechs grew attached to each other."

"Yeah, and then we lost..." Bluestreak shuddered and pressed into his lover's embrace, his vents hiccupping as static overtook his vocalizer.

"So many," Prowl whispered, knowing that sharing grief was what Bluestreak needed. It has been nearly three vorns since the last time, but it was a familiar thing. Too familiar at times. Neither Praxian really noticed when they moved so Bluestreak was nestled between Prowl and Jang-in.

* * *

~Be still,~ Prowl demanded coolly of the mature new spark still feeding from his own. The brightly glowing rich blue and green orb was the size for a convoy class mech, far larger than Prowl's dimming white one. ~Two joor and you may have me. Do _not_ ruin his performance.~

~I want to _feel_ ,~ Tsubasa pulsed in response even as he sent a wave of gentle affection and calmness to his carrier.

With a soft x-vent, Prowl rerouted much of his advanced sensory suite to the limited portions of his processors that his creation could access, offering a compromise to the new spark. He understood its desire to have its frame. Yet these were his last moments, the last experience before the separation would end his existence in his frame.

He wanted that last chosen experience to be loosing himself in Jazz's music.

The too-large spark inside his chamber settled, whether in response to his desire or satisfied by the feed it was getting.

Prowl closed his optics, flared his tri-arch sensor-wings to their full expanse and allowed the music and his lover's voice to become his entire universe, a last memory to see him through the pain of what would come next.

* * *

A jostling forced Prowl to focus on the world outside his sensor net, no matter how reluctant he was to let the soothing sensations fade to the background.

"You should have _said_ something," Sirenis hissed, a desperate edge on his voice that made him sound very much like Jazz. "You're _graying_ ," he added, pulling his lover to his feet with the assistance of a security mech; one large enough to simply pick Prowl up and carry him when he swayed and stumbled against Sirenis in a daze.

It took a moment for Prowl's processors to catch to up with what was spoken; long enough for his tactical computer to determine that there was a 61.3857% probability that he would extinguish before separation if he did not focus on remaining coherent and in his frame until the procedure had sufficiently progressed.

"I failed to notice," Prowl murmured as much of an apology as he could manage. "The concert was lovely," he half-rambled, resting against the security mech's chest without resistance or complaint. "Thank you."

"Anytime, babe," Sirenis didn't stop his vocalizer from tightening or the static that laced his words as the reality of watching Prowl die on the operating table sank in. It didn't really matter that he'd been preparing himself for this moment for more than thirteen vorns, or that he had been prepared for the SIC to be killed any orn for the entire war. It was a bitter moment to accept, knowing that he could have delayed it almost indefinitely. "Ah'll sing ya ta the Well and our sparkling ta life," he promised, the decorative sweeps and arches of his armor beginning to shake and the expressively mobile sensor horns flattened.

By the time the little group made it backstage the news that Sirenis' bonded had collapsed and Sirenis looked far more distressed than he should at a minor issue had spread through the entire crowd and hit the newsfeed.

::We're ready,:: Soft Touch commed Sirenis even as Axe landed in the street, his passenger hatch open.

"Thank you," Sirenis murmured to the largest of the Knights as he settled next to Prowl, holding one hand tightly as the other gently brushed the faintly pained face, its pearly white already appearing dirty as the spark within dimmed too much to sustain everything. "Hold on Prowler, focus on me. Ya gotta live until Tsubasa is out."

"I will," he whispered in return, oblivious to anyone else. He was past the point of caring, even if he had the focus to notice were they were. "He'll be fine. A very strong spark."

* * *

Axe dismissed the guard who carried Prowl to him, waiting no time in lifting off and breaking every speed law in the city to reach the Knight's medical ward before Prowl faded any more or Tsubasa separated fully without a protoform frame to be placed in. The sparkling would _not_ be lost on his watch.

::Skyswept, I have picked up your charges. ETA to medical one klik.:: He commed his fellow Knight.

::I'll be there when you arrive,:: the lighter flier responded. ::How is Prowl?::

::Dieing,:: Axe responded grimly. ::I doubt he has a breem. Tsubasa is still strong.::

::Sirenis?::

::As he should be, singing to his mate and sparkling. He'll hold together while he's needed.::

::That I never doubted,:: Skyswept replied, his tone grim. ::As long as he's with Prowl, at least.:: A short pause. ::I see you. Landing zone is clear. Soft Touch, Lifebringer and First Aid are standing by with the sparkling protoform.::

"First Aid's here?" Jazz's voice startled Axe, though not enough to shake his smooth landing.

"Yes," Axe responded, stopping himself from asking how the mech knew what was going on over the private comm. It didn't matter right then. He opened his hatch to let the doctors in.

"I haven't been an Autobot for some time," First Aid smiled at Jazz, though it was hidden by a visor and mask. "I'm not going to say anything."

Jazz nodded and helped Prowl onto the stretcher, lever letting go of his hand or ending the lullabies as the carrying mech tried to not react to the pain he was in as his spark attempted to rip itself in two.

"You know ... all efforts to the sparkling," Prowl ground out, his pale blue optics hard in his demand of the medics. "My survival is irrelevant."

"Never irrelevant, Prowl," First Aid's soft voice brooked no arguments. "Your wishes will be respected. We will not resuscitate you once the sparkling is free."

"Thank you," tension fled Prowl's frame in a wave, his moan half of relief.

::How can you promise him that now?:: Lifebringer hissed over a secure medical comm channel.

::Because it has been in Prowl's medical orders since he left the Autobots, confirmed each vorn since his arrival here,:: Soft Touch responded first.

::He's earned the end he has wanted for longer than I have functioned,:: First Aid added, though his tone betrayed just how difficult it was to accept. ::We don't have to like it to respect patient wishes.::

::I'll break anyone who tries to bring him back,:: Sirenis' growl sounded nothing like the singer's voice, which was still soothing Prowl as the mech's chest plates unlocked.

::Jazz?:: First Aid turned a startled look his way without breaking the work on Prowl's chassis.

::Usta be,:: Sirenis confirmed, his comm-tone at complete odds with the sweet, gentle voice that filled the medical ward, soothing Prowl and Tsubasa through the separation of their sparks.

First Aid nodded his understanding and focused in silence on protecting the new spark as it pulled away from its carrier's. With a familiar slip of data cable into medical port, he overrode Prowl's protocols to keep his chest closed around so many mechs. He cast a grateful look at Sirenis when the singer gripped Prowl's hand a little tighter and spoke soothingly, talking down the carrier's defensive protocols with encouragement to allow the new spark to escape.

Behind his wide visor, the medic's optics widened as he saw the rich blue and green spark larger than Prime's tethered to a dimming white one less than a half its size.

"How..." Lifebringer whispered in a combination of amazement and disbelief.

"When you were an Autobot as long as Prowl, dieing with a job unfinished just isn't in your coding," First Aid said simply. "Ready?" he locked his gaze on the specialist, demanding the much more senior and higher ranked doctor fall into place under him.

"Yes," Lifebringer confirmed and picked up the spark chamber that would be the bright, pulsing blue and green spark's home for the rest of its existence. With steady, careful hands he linked the over-large crystal chamber with Prowl's failing systems and powered it, using the carrier's energy to make it feel familiar to the spark that was both trying to remain with it's carrier and free itself.

"Come, little one, this is your chamber, just for you," the specialist cooed to the large spark, modulating his voice and energy to be appealing to this specific spark as he pressed the new chamber opening-to-opening with Prowl's. Gentle EM pulses and eddies further encouraged Tsubasa into his own chamber.

With a small pained gasp, then groan that sounded almost pleasured, Prowl arched his chest upward with enough force to unsettle Lifebringer, though First Aid anticipated the move and steadied the specialist. A bright flash of light exploded within Prowl's chamber, followed by Tsubasa's chamber lighting up as the new spark took up residence. With a shudder and sigh that was decidedly pleasured, Prowl's chassis relaxed completely, his optics dimmed to black, followed by the last of his frame turning gray.

Lifebringer kept his optics on Tsubasa's chamber and not on the graying and cooling frame as he quickly moved the sparkling's chamber to his first frame, all his attention on ensuring at least one of the pair walked out of the medical ward.

For Sirenis, his attention was torn between watching his sparkling light his optics for the first time and watching the mech he'd come to love turn his off for the last time.

* * *

Optics lit for the first time, taking in the room and mechs around the sparkling nearly as large as a minibot but built with the aesthetics of the Towers mixed with New Crystal City, a bit of Jazz and a lot of Praxus and Ankmor Park. Tsubasa looked around, pausing at each mech as pre-loaded datafiles identified each.

_Lifebringer. New Crystal City sparkling specialist. Expression: pleased._

_First Aid. Former Autobot medic. Former Protectobot. Current status: unknown. Expression: concealed. Frame language: reassuring. Focused..._

_Sirenis._ **Creator.** _Formerly Jazz, Autobot Third in Command and Chief of Special Operations. Currently: Singer in New Crystal City. Expression: distressed?_

"Do you not want me here?" Tsubasa asked quietly, his golden optics focused on his creator.

"What?" Sirenis jerked himself out of First Aid's embrace to stare at the sparkling half his height. "No, no, nothing like that, sweetspark," he shook his head sharply in denial and knelt to draw Tsubasa against his chassis. "I'm glad you're here, alive and functioning well. Just grieving. Prowl, your carrier, is gone. He meant a lot to me."

"Oh," Tsubasa returned the embrace a little awkwardly for still learning to control his frame. "Didn't he tell you?"

Sirenis sighed, a shuddering vent, and rested his forehelm against Tsubasa's shoulder, their helms side by side. "You'll understand in a few vorns, but sometimes knowing will never be enough to accept the inevitable."

"Oh," he murmured, then twitched sharply. "I'm supposed to tell you something. Lightstep."

Soft Touch cocked her head slightly at the way Sirenis froze, his dark green optic band flashing nearly white. "A mechling's name, one ready to upgrade."

"Yes," Sirenis murmured as he fought to put himself to rights without moving. "Thank you, Tsubasa," he whispered only for the sparkling to hear.

"May I see my carrier's remains?" he asked innocently.

Sirenis shivered, but nodded and loosed his embrace as he stood. "His designation was Prowl."

Though he knew, Tsubasa nodded without comment as he took in the deactivated frame. Memory files uploaded to his banks provided the living colors the gray frame had once sported, as well as what it had looked like on Cybertron and on Earth. A file of his carrier's official records prompted if he wanted to integrate them.

He refused for now. His creator needed him, so he needed to not be distracted by the past.

Motion caught his attention and he looked at a mech noticeably larger than the others in the room.

_Skyswept. Knight of the Circle of Light. Native of New Crystal City. Design: Ankmorian combat Aerial. Relevance: assigned to Prowl and Jazz adjust to civilian life. Authorized secondary guardian._

He felt protrusions on his back, attached near the shoulders, shift without direct command and glanced at the responsible coding. He had winglets, capable of being upgraded to either flight wings like Skyswept or sensor wings like his carrier, and they moved to express his emotions as well as gather sensory data.

This movement indicated a shy greeting to the flier.

Interesting.

Why did Skyswept feel so familiar? A friend. It wasn't carry-over from his carrier, though Prowl did consider the flier an ally. Prowl did not consider anyone a friend. Not in the way Tsubasa felt towards Skyswept already.

It didn't matter. What mattered was that his creator was grieving his carrier's extinguishing.

Tsubasa reached up to stroke Sirenis' arched winglets, drawing him out of the revere.

"We ... should go now," Sirenis mumbled, his processors having difficulty focusing much past getting his sparkling home.

"I can introduce Tsubasa to those waiting, if you would like a little more time," Skyswept offered softly, just loud enough for the singer and sparkling to hear.

The sparkling gave a short hum that his datafiles indicated Sirenis used for agreement and watched as creator startle slightly, then stare at him.

Slowly the elegant mech nodded, turning his gaze to Skyswept. "Thank you."

Skyswept smiled softly and put a hand on Tsubasa's shoulder. "Ready to meet your other caretakers? Bluestreak, Jang-in, Mirage and several friends are eager to meet you."

"Yes," he nodded and took the offered hand with only a quick glance at his grieving creator and his carrier's gray frame. He felt a small ping of unpleasant sensation as they walked towards the door and quickly identified it as anxiety at being separated from his creator.

Why would he feel that? He had no bond with Sirenis yet, Skyswept was an authorized caretaker and Sirenis knew where they were going?

 _Self-preservation protocols_ a sub-processor supplied.

Any interest in analyzing them vanished at a high-pitched squeal that erupted the moment the door opened. A medium gray mass, quickly resolved to be a mech of similar design to his carrier, rushed towards him.

Reflex had him take a step back as Skyswept stepped forward and used his mass to gently block the assault.

"Bluestreak, be calm," the firm voice of the flier demanded obedience.

"Oh right of course I'm sorry," Bluestreak tried not to squeal again, his full focus on the minibot-sized new sparkling colored bright white with a fair amount of blue and red, a small golden chevron and bright green optics. "Sparklings shouldn't be rushed I know that I'm just so excited to meet him. I mean he's my little _brother_ ," he looked up at Skyswept, imploring the larger mech to understand before his processors caught up with what he'd been looking at and his optics snapped back to the sparkling with a stiffening frame and doorwings snapped up in distress before they were forcefully lowered when Jang-in placed a hand on one.

"What is it?" Jang-in asked quietly, right next to his lover's audio receptor.

Bluestreak shook his head and tried to appear relaxed again, but it didn't work.

An old-design noble in light blue and white stepped up to Tsubasa and knelt to be optic-level with him.

_Mirage. Autobot Special Operations Commander, spy. Authorized guardian. Loyalty: Jazz. Ally. Trustworthy. Pre-war noble._

"Greetings, creation of my brother," Mirage spoke in the deeply formal tones of ancient High Cybertronian before switching to the modern Cybertronian of New Crystal City. "Forgive Bluestreak. He was expecting a Praxian frame, not the open one you given."

Tsubasa inclined his head, noting how his winglets moved with the motion and the intent to communicate.

"Thank you for welcoming me, Lord Mirage," he smiled at the mech that was all sharp angles other than the arch of his helm.

The noble beamed. "Such a polite sparkling. You do your creators credit."

"Yes I'm sorry I balked," Bluestreak spoke up. "I didn't mean it in a bad way I was just really surprised, you know?" He was about to go on when Jang-in put a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

"I was not offended," Tsubasa smiled at him, raising his small winglets in greeting. "It is an understandable expectation."

"You talk so much like Prowl," Bluestreak's expression fell to grief. "Do you have his battle computer?" he asked softly.

Tsubasa smiled and offered a hand, palm up, while he brought his winglets as far forward as he could. His smile brightened when Bluestreak placed his hand over Tsubasa's outstretched one, then offered his other hand, palm up, and brought his doorwings forward, nearly touching the sparkling's.

"I do have an advanced tactical computer, however even when fully upgraded it will not be advanced enough to suffer the same issues my carrier had with his."

Bluestreak nodded, then lowered his helm to touch forehelms with his new brother.

"Welcome to the family, Tsubasa," Bluestreak greeted him solemnly. "Your carrier may be gone, but you will never be without close kin."

"Thank you, Bluestreak."

* * *

Two orns and it's only now sinking in just how _big_ Tsubasa will be after his final upgrades. He's already more than half my height, though less than a quarter my mass thanks to my heavy armor and reinforced internals. He'll be as big as Prime, maybe even Skyfire, when he's a mech. No one's going to believe I was his other creator, but as long as it's legal, it doesn't much matter. I'm not going to let anyone destroy his life like Prowl - like _mine_ \- was destroyed.

Who would have thought it? My first creation, who isn't really my creation, is the one who has given me my own past back. Though considering the two possible sources, I'm not sure which I prefer.

It's less unnerving to think Prowl somehow found out, but why wouldn't he give me my original designation, the password to my pre-Autobot memories? He knew I was trying to remember.

The other possibility is that Primus sent the knowledge with Tsubasa, but that means he's _real_ and _that_ is a reality I don't care to contemplate. If there are Pits, I'm going there ... but so will nearly everyone I know and care about, so maybe it's not such a bad thing. Generations of Cybertronians condemned to eternal torment of freezing cold and melting heat because of a war most don't even know why we're fighting, much less why it begun.

My sparkling stirs when I shudder. I try not to but I can't deny that Unicron is real ... was real ... and that means Primus probably is and _that_ means I'm fragged beyond recognition. I can only hope he takes pity on Prowl. More pity than the living will. Prime may write the history, but the people will see his words about his SIC and CTO and blame Prowl for much of the war going so long. I've already seen the beginnings. Those who served with Prowl remember him for the dedicated, loyal Autobot he was, a mech that gave his all for Cybertron and his people, but everyone else ... he's becoming a scapegoat and nothing I've done can stop it.

"Creator?" Tsubasa shifted to snuggle against Sirenis a little more, trying to comfort him with his heat and EM field.

"Shu, it's nothing," Sirenis murmured, stroking his sparkling reassuringly. "Just memories and wondering where Prowl is now."

"With Primus," Tsubasa looked up into a green visor that matched his optics in color. "Isn't that where sparks go?"

"Maybe, my Brightoptics." Sirenis lowered his helm to rest alongside the sparkling's and let out a shaky vent. "It's said those who have committed horrible crimes go to the Pit too. Nobody knows for sure."

"But he was a good mech," Tsubasa immediately objected, squirming to try to look at his creators features. "He wasn't..."

"I know, baby. He had a good spark. He meant for the best," he finally relented and looked to his creation's optics. "War though, even the best meaning mechs do horrible, evil things."

"Wherever he is, you'll go there too," the sparkling said, already piecing that much together.

"If the Pit is like human Hell, I'm going to a much deeper level for my functioning," Sirenis vented. "No amount of good will ever even the score for me," he said softly, little actual grief in his tone. "With everything, I'm hoping Prowl is right, even if I doubt he is. Between Unicron showing up and Prime coming back, Primus most likely exists."

Tsubasa was still for a long time, nestling against his creator's chest, listening to the strong spark pulse that had been so close to his carrier. They'd both nearly cycled down into recharge when something pinged Tsubasa's tactical computer demanding an answer.

"Sirenis, why help?" he spoke up. "If you believe you are condemned no matter what you do, why have you helped so many since the war ended? You've sponsored twenty former Autobots and two former Decepticons. Over half your income goes to that fund."

The larger body wrapped around him briefly stiffening as Sirenis' EM field flared in confused surprise before settling.

"Just because I don't expect any mercy in the after-functioning doesn't mean there's a reason not to do the right thing," Sirenis said firmly. "They needed a sponsor and I have the resources."

"But there is no reward," Tsubasa cocked his head and looked up, trying to understand his creator's logic.

A small smile crossed Sirenis' features. "Oh, there's reward, baby," he stroked Tsubasa's winglets. "It feels good."

"To have them in debt to you?"

A soft vent, heavy with sadness as distress crept into the edges of Sirenis' EM field. "No. That's _useful_ in the same way intel and blackmail material is. Helping feels good ... because it does. It's not about holding something over others. I don't need anything more along those lines, not after being Jazz for so long." He settled his helm along side Tsubasa's. "Maybe I'm trying to make up for what I've done. I'd like to believe I've grown more than that, become a better mech than that, but there's a lot I don't remember anymore."

Tsubasa hummed acceptance and locked all that away to be processed as he recharged.

* * *

Strange, so close to extinguishing and though I know this should be painful, it actually feels good. I suspect ... yes, I _suspect_ that is because my spark is weak enough that my processors are no longer receiving the data. My tactical computer is off line, my condition forcing it to shut down for lack of energy. It is entirely probable that everything I am experiencing, including this building overload, are simply sensory artifacts and processor ghosts I am no longer in condition to sort out from real data.

Still, as extinguishing goes, it's pleasant.

~Go Tsubasa.~ It's a struggle, but I force the thought through both our conditions. He must detach while I still have enough energy to be aware of him.

~Trying.~ His reply is distressed, exhausted, struggling. ~Bond won't break.~

All I can offer is a small wave of reassurance and focus inside, pushing as much energy as I can towards him.

The pleasure is rising, making it difficult to think. Somewhere in the background I feel encouragement for what is going in, though I'm not entirely sure why or for what. Sensation, the not-quite-right pleasure of a desired sparkmerge without arousal first is all I can notice, all I feel ... all I know until it's over with an explosion I'm sure is my spark going out.

... ... ...

I can still think?

Why _can_ I still think?

 **"The separation went exactly as you planned,"** a warm mech's voice fills my awareness, though I can't tell from where.

Thinking, processing data, is so much slower now, with my tactical computer off line, but eventually I manage.

I still have no input from by sensors ... any of them.

 **"Yes, you have extinguished,"** the voice confirms for me. **"This is what you call the Well of All Sparks."**

Even knowing I have no sensory input, which makes sense if I no longer have a frame, I send the commands to look around, to flick sensory panels and try to know what is around me. It is ingrained past logic.

Warmth registers; a pleasant sensation. It does little to quell the fear slowly rising in my spark. If the voice tells the truth and this is the Well, which the absence of both a link to my frame and to Tsubasa would indicate is true, then not only is there existence after extinguishing, but one remembers as well.

All my hopes for peaceful oblivion are in vain.

**"Prowl, my child, is that truly what you wish, to cease to exist?"**

He sounds pained.

The fear - terror if I am honest - has risen to a point I cannot find concern for him or his feelings.

YesyesyesyesyesYES!

It's all I can really process right now; all that kept me going all those vorns was the self-delusion that when my functioning was finally over, it would be _over_.

**"Shu, calm little one."**

I can't.

I can't be calm.

It's like when my glitch would crash me, but a thousand times worse. There is no blackness. No temporary oblivion while my systems reset. No waking up with the situation gone.

I can hear him, distantly, trying to order me to calm down, to think, before everything fades out.

Relief.

* * *

The city was exciting to walk through, at least for Tsubasa. At a decaorn in his frame, he was as eager to soak in new experiences and enforce his pre-loaded data with experience as Lightstep or Jazz had ever been. His creator smiled softly, allowing him fairly free reign to investigate everything that drew his attention, from energon confection shops to a detailing studio to toy shops to art galleries ... then sound grabbed his attention and he followed it, entranced by the pattern that called to him like nothing else.

Sparkling winglets flared wide, drinking in the pressure waves that made his entire sensory net tingle in the most pleasant way.

::It's music,:: Sirenis' voice came over a short range comm to avoid disrupting the experience. ::His designation's Windsong.::

::Why is it so different from your music?:: Tsubasa glanced at his creator before focusing on tracking the sound down.

::In simplest terms, because you've never listened to me _perform_. There's a completely different purpose to practice or lullabies than bending an audience to your will,:: Sirenis explained as the entered a public crystal garden.

::You sound like it's work,:: Tsubasa murmured, though most of his attention was focused on the sleek minibot racer in blue and gold with silver highlights and a red chevron at the center of an ever-growing crowd.

::It's a lot of work,:: he agreed, watching Windsong work both instruments and crowd, gauging the other performer's intentions. ::Right now he's performing for the thrill of controlling the crowd's response.::

They listened through three songs, and watched as the crowd produced a few credits, energon or other useful things to toss into the performer's open box for each song.

::Voluntary gifts for entertaining them,:: Sirenis explained.

::Will you give?:: Tsubasa didn't quite look at his creator.

::No, I'm his peer. We work together. I don't tip him, he doesn't tip me,:: Sirenis said calmly. ::We have a joint concert scheduled next vorn to welcome me back to the stage.::

That did make the decaorn-old sparkling turn around to look at him.

::My mate extinguished and I have a new sparkling to care for and raise by myself,:: he said quietly. ::It would be an insult to the city's way if I went back to work much sooner. They are determined that no one will go hungry or homeless for lack of credits.::

Tsubasa nodded and allowed himself to be entranced with the performance once more.

* * *

Halfway through a step on the smooth walkway of downtown, Tsubasa froze, his winglets quivering as a sound squeaked up from inside his chassis. Sirenis' hand was on his shoulder immediately, seeking to pinpoint what had caught the sparkling's attention.

It took several moments, but eventually Tsubasa homed in on a white ground mech, built for war, with a Great Sword sheathed along his backstrut and a short sword at each side.

It was a frame that Sirenis recognized instantly and associated with two designations: Drift and Deadlock. Both deadly. Both violent. Neither a mech he wanted anywhere near his sparkling. He trusted Drift as an Autobot. Trusted him as an ally in combat. That was as far as it went between them; a healthy respect for the other's ability to take them apart.

"What is it about him?" Sirenis asked softly. "I can feel you're drawn to him."

Tsubasa glanced up at his creator, taking in the unease before looking back at the heavily armored white in an attempt to determine an answer. They both watched Drift enter an energon shop, then exit a short while later with a bottle of glowing dark blue high grade with a heavy Promethium additive.

"I don't know, Creator," he said miserably. He didn't question, didn't even consider not plugging the cable in when it was offered, and let his firewalls, such as they were, fall to his creator. It was comforting, feeling the older, more experienced processors coil smoothly around and into his. Watching, feeling, learning as Sirenis examined his reactions to the other mech.

He watched as his creator's processors froze in a horrified kind of understanding, the shudder of unwanted knowledge, the battle to accept what could not be changed.

Tsubasa waited, still and quiet, watching, learning, as Sirenis pulled his thoughts together and slipped from his mind but not from the connection.

~It's spark resonance,~ Sirenis said softly, burying his distress. ~Your spark's frequency is complementary to his. It's very uncommon, even with our population this low.~

~What does it mean?~ he looked up at his creator, instinctively concerned by anything that distressed the mech.

Sirenis paused for a long moment, his gaze on Drift as the swordsmech noticed their attention and locked optics with him.

~It means you will be drawn to him, want to be near him,~ Sirenis said quietly. ~Likely that you'll desire him as a lover when you get those upgrades.~

~But you don't like him,~ Tsubasa countered uneasily as he looked towards Drift again, watching the mech walk away.

~He's dangerous, and not in a good way,~ Sirenis sighed mentally, urging him to begin walking once more. ~He's not an evil mech, he's just not a _good_ one either.~

~Because he used to be a Decepticon?~ Tsubasa looked up at him with troubled green optics.

~No,~ Sirenis shook his head sharply before turning into a confection shop. ~Because he's too much like me. Every orn is a challenge for him not to revert to those ways, to violence as the first and only way to exist.~

~But he has a great sword,~ Tsubasa countered, not really understanding the importance of the object, but with enough data integrated into his active memory banks to grasp that they weren't given lightly. "May I have one of those, creator?" he asked politely out loud, pointing to a multi-colored swirling globe of solid energon.

"One copper rainbow and one dark dream," Sirenis nodded. ~Yes, his lover and teacher's sword. I'm not sure why Dai Atlas gave it to Drift. He has never misused it,~ he admitted. ~I just don't like that you are so drawn to someone who's so inherently violent.~

~Why would I be drawn to him, if it's a bad idea?~ Tsubasa questioned, his tone respectful even as he pushed.

~I don't know,~ Sirenis admitted as he paid for the treats and lead his sparkling out onto the street. ~Even at the height of the research it was poorly understood. I will try to arrange for you to meet him.~

Tsubasa glanced up, startled, and they covered it by handing his treat to him. ~Thank you, creator.~

* * *

Drift snapped to awareness with all the suddenness he was renown for as Deadlock. Close-range sensors first, then combat protocols, then weapons. About then was when he identified a small mech, a small _minibot_ , creeping up to Wing's Great Sword. It reached out, straining to touch the gem set in the hilt. The former Autobot knew without turning on his optics that the mech, less than half his height, would never manage. Still, it wouldn't do to have some sneak-thief scum _touching_ what was left of Wing's spark in the physical world.

He moved with the swift, precise grace that a lifetime of combat had drilled into him, snatching up the intruder by the neck as the Decepticons has taught him but merely hoisted the wide-opticked mech to his optic level with the restraint his first true lover had somehow managed to instill in him. Something niggled the back of Drift's processors as he took in the bright emerald-green optics and terrified features level with his own.

It took him a moment to place it, to work out that it was three things. This was a sparkling, a _young_ one; likely under a vorn, which meant he'd he a giant if he survived to his final frame. It was the same sparkling that stared at him every time they crossed paths. Skyswept's brat with that performer with the green visor.

But what really hit him was that this sparkling he'd never actually met felt _familiar_ to him.

"I'm sorry," the sparkling whispered, not actually fighting, only using his hands on Drift's forearm to take a little weight off his neck. "I couldn't resist."

Drift cocked his head and put the little one down, shifting to cross his arms and glare down.

"Start with your designation and that of your creators," he demanded curtly.

"I'm Tsubasa. My carrier was Prowl, my creator is Sirenis," he answered quickly, looking away, desperate not to meet Drift's sharp blue optics.

Drift raised an optic ridge at the statement. So this was the infamous Autobot Second in Command's spawn. Which did leave two questions, only one of which he cared about.

"What role does Skyswept have?"

"He was assigned to my creators to help them adjust to civilian functioning," the sparkling answered easily. "He's my creator's friend."

So Sirenis was an Autobot at one point. Also a former Decepticon, if Drift was any judge of character and training. He opened a comm line and pinged Skyswept with a brief message that Tsubasa was in Drift's quarters and was not welcome to stay.

He'd comm Sirenis if there wasn't a response from Skyswept within a klik.

"Sit," Drift pointed to the floor where the sparkling was standing and was only half surprised at the immediate compliance. Sirenis definitely wasn't one to tolerate direct disobedience if this was any indication. "Do either know you aren't in your berth?"

"No," Tsubasa shook his head, his emerald green optics already shifting towards Wing's Great Sword once more.

Drift watched him silently for a moment.

"Why don't you just pester Skyswept about his Great Sword?" Drift decided to pass the time - and keep the sparkling from trying to touch _Wing's_ Great Sword again.

That got the sparkling's attention, and apparently made him think too.

"It's not interesting," Tsubasa answered pensively. " _That_ one sings to me."

Drift grunted again and gave a nearly-audible sigh of relief when Skyswept commed him back.

::Is he okay?:: The Knight sounded more than slightly terrified, though he was keeping it controlled.

::The sparkling's fine,:: Drift tried not to roll his optics. ::Who here would hurt one?::

::No one,:: came the immediate, reflexive reply. ::Convincing his _creator_ of that isn't so easy. Don't antagonize Sirenis, please. He's likely to lash out right now.::

::What could I possibly have to fear from an entertainer?:: This time he did roll his optics.

::Not much. But from who he was before, far too much. He can change his designation and frame, but hasn't changed much of his programming.::

::So who _was_ he? Sounds like I knew him.:: Drift was suddenly very curious. It sounded like Sirenis' previous life was a secret like his was. Not suppressed or deleted, but not spoken of without good cause either.

"Jazz," the vaguely familiar voice caught Drift's attention from the huge picture window that opened onto a balcony. The quarters were really designed for a flier - for _Wing_ \- but Drift would never change them in such a fundamental way. "Seems the kid takes after Prowl more than I thought."

"After Prowl?" Drift raised an optic ridge at the lounging form, only paying slight attention as Tsubasa rushed to his creator and buried himself against the sleek white armor that no longer bore any real resemblance to the heavy wartime frame the Autobot TIC was known in.

Sirenis chuckled, stroking his creation's helm. "He sees a 'shiny' and doesn't give up until he has it. How do you think Prowler got me?"

That raised an optic ridge even further, but Drift said nothing.

"Well, sorry for letting him disturb your recharge," Sirenis continued as he nudged Tsubasa to the floor and followed with the smooth, lethal grace Jazz had long been known for. "I'll improve the security on his room before I recharge."

Drift meanly nodded, watching as the pair left his quarters by the door.

Tsubasa's optics never quite left Wing's Great Sword.

* * *

**"Prowl?"**

For all the voice's soft, gentle manner, it is a demand to awareness, a direct order I can resist no more than I could Prime's.

I don't want to respond. Responding means awareness. Awareness means unrelenting agony and chaos.

"Why won't you let me fade?" I hear myself half ask, half demand. It's unlike me, but here I have no programming to keep me in check, no battle computer to give me odds or suggest the best course of action. All that's in me now are emotions; raw, uncontrolled and some I don't even have names for. "Or at least allow me to _forget_."

**"Sparks can no more cease than I can, little one."**

I know he means it gently, but even when I try, I can't take it that way. He's condemned me. If I had _any_ idea that the Well would be like this I would have submitted to the treatments forever to avoid it. At least within my frame I could control it somewhat.

**"It does not need to be that way, Prowl. There are many who love you and wish to meet..."**

"NO!" I can't even attempt to restrain the scream, the denial, the terror the prospect generates in me.

 **"Prowl, they cannot lie here, or to me,"** the voice is strong, demanding I believe.

"Than you know how badly I do not want to feel these ... _things_ ," I find myself growing, only to have him respond with a brush of affection and support that makes my spark roil with building rage until he withdraws.

**"I can take the pain away, if you allow me to."**

"Why wouldn't I?" I hear the demand as if it's from another person. I am distant from this conversation, detached from what is happening. "The worst you can do is force me to continue to exist as I am, which you have already determined to do. Anything is an improvement."

Suddenly he's before me, as large as a giant star to me as my awareness expands to include a space beyond myself and the voice. Tendrils reach out from the giant, prismatic spark to encompass the minuscule dot that is mine. Pleasure rips through me until it's pain, only to shift to pleasure once more.

I scream, thrash, try to pull away and press closer all at the time. It's not unlike the first time I spark-merged, the way Prime's spark could consume mine if I wasn't completely prepared for its strength.

 **"So much hate,"** his voice echoes _inside_ me now, full of sadness and grief.

"You sound surprised," I growl back, the dual struggle only getting stronger the deeper Primus gets. I can _feel_ him tearing parts from my spark only to weld fresh energy in to replace it. Yet as battle-primed as I am, I can feel the pain of emotions gradually fade. The backlash that strong emotions have always caused is cooling, settling to a level I can cope with easier.

I don't know, don't understand, but it's working. For the first time since the emotional protocols were installed, I find myself drifting into recharge peacefully.

* * *

Drift considered the deep burgundy youngling with midnight blue, flame red, bright white and pitch-black highlights who stood optic to optic with him. Tsubasa was only a few decaorns in his second upgrade of four and was beginning to show what he'd look like as a mech. His wings were flight-worthy. His chassis already well armored, better armored than most mechs in the city. He'd be larger than Ax, likely a good bit faster and able to take heavier damage in another three or four hundred vorns when he was upgraded to a mech. Even now he had armor, mass and training almost comparable to Drift's in hand-to-hand and short sword combat.

The older mech knew that he finally had an opponent that couldn't humiliate him, though that it was a freshly upgraded youngling was its own kind of humiliation. He pushed both thoughts aside along with most of his pride. Though he'd not been told outright, he knew what today was for and what his place in events was. As the least-skilled of those with a Great Sword - he still refused to accept the title of Knight - he was here to test the newest applicant for formal training.

That said youngling only had a few vorns less training that he did didn't help his temper, even if Drift knew he'd never take it out on Tsubasa. Not with Sirenis staring at him from the sidelines next to Skyswept, the rest of the Knights and every Cybertronian who'd fought in the war, Autobot or Decepticon.

No, there would be no thrashing of Tsubasa, and probably not of anyone else this orn.

Drift cast a measured look at the five former Decepticons in the audience. He recognized a couple but none had been of any consequence in the ranks, unlike Deadlock. If he really needed to beat on someone, it'd be easy to grab a couple, get them mildly overcharged and get in a good brawl somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted by Knights or Enforcers, both of whom hard far too little to do in this city.

With the expected bows, they both drew their short swords and dropped into a defensive posture. Each taking in the other's measure as they circled. Of course, they knew each other well. Drift had taken to sparing with Tsubasa in an effort to make enough of a connection with the sparkling to keep him away from Wing's Great Sword. He'd guided the sparkling towards the Knights with the same goal. If Tsubasa had his own sword, he should give up his fixation on Wing's.

The entire hundred and twenty vorn project was easily the most difficult, trying effort Drift had ever attempted.

They circled, feinted, parried, attacked and dodged. A hard dance that Drift knew marked him as _different_ from the Knights, and he realized, distantly, that he was no longer unique in. He'd taught Tsubasa much of his manner in battle, and while his creator and guardian has smoothed over the harshest of Drift's edges in the sparkling, there was no mistaking that the youngling that spared with him now was a product of war-time mechs who valued function and strength far more than form.

It felt good though, for Drift to let loose against the one he'd trained to this level. To show off his efforts and their results.

Because Tsubasa was _good_. He had his carrier's processor speed, logic and tightly controlled emotions. He had his sire's brilliant lateral processing, physical self-awareness and utter willingness to be ruthless. He also had his guardian's natural grace and flight-instincts.

Drift grinned to himself as he drew a line of gold with his sword along the youngling's wing and saw him flitch and fall back as if the strike was real. Playing by the rules he'd been given flawlessly. He pressed his advantage, his features feral as emerald green optics glowed and flashed in defiance.

Oh yes, Drift could admit he was proud of this youngling he had helped shape, even if he wasn't that fond of the youngling himself. He still refused to admit he felt a draw to Tsubasa every time he touched Wing's Great Sword. It was too unsettling to contemplate.

Tsubasa met the challenge by folding his wings more tightly against his frame and using the vast energy reserves of a combat Aerial on the ground to bolster his speed and duck under Drift's guard to slash bright green across his midriff and side of his chest.

"Enough," Dai Atlas spoke calmly and firmly, causing both contestants to stand strait and bow to each other before sheathing their paint-edged sparing swords in the scabbards they were meant for. "Drift, thank you. You may go."

Though it went against the grain, Drift bowed formally to the city leader, turned and left Tsubasa in the circle, facing the mech who would determine much of his fate.

From the sidelines near the younger Knights, some of whom had volunteered to die with Wing to protect the city a hundred and thirty vorns ago, Drift accepted the help of Scythe, one of the few ground-bound Knights, in clearing his white armor off a handful of green marks. His own marks, done in gold, crisscrossed Tsubasa's chassis. With a thought that nearly dropped him to his knees, Drift realized he'd taken Wing's place in someone's functioning. Wing had left him looking like that more orns than not. Now he did it to another.

::Drift?:: Scythe's tight-beam comm was concerned. While Drift had kept the reaction in check, it wasn't enough to conceal it from a mech who was touching him.

::Fine.:: he replied on pure reflex, watching as the youngling knelt before Dai Atlas and accepted his training swords.

The city leader then called Skyswept forward and formally requested the Knight to train their youngest member.

As the red-plated Knight agreed, Drift cast a look at Sirenis to assess the creator's reaction to loosing his creation so young. He wasn't entirely sure to make of the mixed pride and relief. He really didn't, not with what he knew of Jazz's reputation and history and the fact this was his only creation with the mech he professed to love as a bonded.

* * *

"Are you displeased with my performance, creator?" Tsubasa asked cautiously, his optics on the mech he now stood optic-to-optic with. He had waited until they were in the relative privacy of their home ... his creator's home; he was now to move in with Skyswept until his training was complete and would then move into his own quarters in the Knights Quarter.

Sirenis jerked around, his visor slashing brightly in surprise.

"What makes you ask that?" he took the two steps that separated him from the youngling he'd spent a hundred and twenty vorns educating in everything from music to astrophysics to history to how best to break a mech or break into a secure location to how to break himself for a clean, fast end if it was ever the best choice. A long functioning on the front lines and SpecOps lines of a war graced every moment, even when neither of them realized it. For every moment of awareness was a moment that Sirenis was fully aware of what Jazz was and was not. Every moment he was not bending an audience to his will was one of grief at loss or guilt at things he refused to remember in detail.

"You did not seem ... happy when I was accepted into the Knights," Tsubasa managed to hold his voice steady, but he had not yet managed to do the same with his chassis or optics, at least not to the mech who had raised him.

With a deep, shaky vent Sirenis rested his forehelm against the small, back-swept red chevron that would one day be as proud as his carrier's.

"Ya know my history, Suba," Sirenis whispered, his vocalizer changing the subsonic harmonics that distinguished Jazz from Sirenis the most. "Ya know the Knights are the city's defenders. I'm very proud of you for what you've learned and for following your dream. It's bitter for me, knowing ya'll be a warrior. Ah ... I always hoped ya wouldn't be that. That ya'd never hav'ta kill."

"I'm sorry, creator," Tsubasa's pain reflected Sirenis', but he stopped when Sirenis lifted fingers to his lip components.

"Never be sorry for following your dreams, Suba. _Never_ be sorry for that." Sirenis said, his voice as hard as it ever was with his creation. Green optics locked with green optics, one set full of old pain, the other with hope to sooth that pain away. "If I didn't believe that you were meant for the Knight, that it wouldn't make you _happy_ , I'd have stopped this, stopped Drift. But baby, I can see the absolute peace I can only pray for every time you do you katas or spar. I don't understand it, but I can _see_ it. You're meant for this the way I'm meant for music."

"Yes, creator," Tsubasa murmured, his frame trembling slightly. "Will I see you again, as my creator?"

"Damn strait you will," Sirenis growled in a completely Jazz-like tone. "You're still my creation and I'm not done training you in _my_ skills of war."

* * *

After three efforts to cleanse and fix my spark, Primus seems to have devised a new torment for me in the name of 'healing' me. I have definitely come to regret my brash assumption that he couldn't do any worse to me that force me to exist. His efforts _have_ made existing far less painful, there is no questioning it. Now, however, he has decided that allowing me to exist in the relative peace I had in the emptiness is no longer for me. Apparently I am healed enough to be introduced to society once more.

Wonderful.

As if I wanted to deal with these people when we were alive and I could at least insist on physical distance. No, the only way to communicate here it to touch coronas. Still, I have enough hate to make coming that close to me painful for almost anyone if I don't tightly control it.

One last mental glare at the god I have long denied the existence of and the dark emptiness around me is suddenly _full_ of sparks of all sizes, colors and strength. Recognition comes too fast to processes ... if I had processors anymore. It's probably good I don't have my logic chips here. This would lock me up for a long time.

The first to greet me, his corona crackling with an eager friendliness that reminds me entirely too much of Bluestreak, is one of my brothers lost so very early in the war.

"Tandem," I greet him politely and try to pull away when he gets too close. But touching sparks is the only way to communicate here and he presses forward at a slower rate, presumably to allow me to accept this newness and his presence. It is the way he was programmed, the way his plans for his functioning off duty tended to lay out; rush in with exuberance, back off and approach more slowly if he was rebuffed. Just about anyone else I'd force away, but I know Tandem as well as I know myself. He'll keep trying until he succeeds. It's better to let him.

"Prowl," his greeting is more cautious this time, his approach slower. "It's weird, but you'll get used to things here."

"I'm sure." It takes everything in me not to lash out and make him _feel_ what I do now. He catches an echo of it anyway and recoils with a pulse of distress.

Slowly Tandem slides close and gives a pulse of curiosity and support. "Who hurt you? I thought the war was over."

"It is. This was set in motion when I was assigned to the Autobots. Done by Ratchet under orders of Optimus Prime," I realize I respond before I can censor it when he really does recoil in abject horror. Whether it is at the statement or the truth of it I cannot tell before he is gone.

Seeing him flee from me does have a useful side affect; no one else comes near me for some time.

* * *

**"Why don't you try?"**

"Prowl: unlikely to forgive Soundwave," I address Him evenly. "Prowl and Soundwave: only enemies."

There is a pause, a gentle brush against my spark, before He speaks again.

**"He forgave you long ago. He needs a spark he knows to teach him what he relied on hardware to deal with before. His spark is as whole as I can make it. The rest must be learned."**

I hold still for a very long moment, such as time exists here, regarding the faintly pulsing spark, its corona pulled so tightly against its core that it might as well not be there. It is radiating 'do not touch' even more strongly than I did on arrival. Yet I know this mech; know the reasons...

I can't help pulse in surprise and 'glance' at the gigantic spark of Primus.

Our reasons were exactly the same?

But will Prowl accept my help?

**"It will not hurt you to try."**

I can resist a direct order now no more than when I served as his priest before the war. I am just outside his corona's range before I even fully process that I've moved. Around us are many sparks; those who cared about him in functioning and a few of my former comrades who are just curious. With his corona so tight, Prowl will know none of this. He is not even aware of my proximity yet.

Am I truly prepared to face him without the shields of our software and hardware?

I edge a little closer and extend my corona towards him, giving the absolute minimum contact required for him to realize I'm here until he extends his corona to let me in. It is entirely too reminiscent of when I first encountered Frenzy. Unable to trust, to perceive anything as less than a deadly threat, yet desperate for what I am willing to provide.

Frenzy needed energon, which I had to spare.

Prowl needs a companion capable of teaching him what he does not have the patience to work out for himself. With that first brush, I already know I am to prepare to him live again, in a similarly limited way to his original function. That set of processors could not coexist with emotional protocols at all. His next one is likely to be closer to his brothers; only limited in compatibility.

For now Primus and I are likely the only ones here capable of withstanding the fallout of his time as an Autobot.

* * *

This was his home, the place he had built to very exacting specifications to make him feel safe. It was a place he could let loose, allow himself to drop the protocols that protected the world from his erratic nature. Not just the violence he was capable of, but also the traitorous thoughts he was prone to.

Deep inside, in the private living room where he had spent so much of the past hundred and twenty vorns training Tsubasa how to be a saboteur, assassin, thief and con artist of the highest degree, Sirenis nursed the third cube of the strongest high-grade he could find.

Suddenly he began to laugh. A wild, uncontrolled sound bordering on insanity ... or perhaps well past it. Not even Jazz was sure and he didn't care. There were too many lives, too many memory blocks that came down randomly to give him insight into his long and varied functioning.

It wasn't a laugh that Skyswept wanted to hear. It wasn't a pretty sound, it wasn't happy. It was what he was expecting, however, when he began this watch after requesting Ax to watch over his charge - the creation of the mech he was now watching become more heavily overcharged by the breem.

Though he dreaded the answer, Skyswept was determined to help the mech who needed it and was willing to let him into his nightmares.

"What's funny?" he asked quietly, his every move, even raising his own high grade - a much more refined brew than Sirenis was consuming - was blatantly telegraphed to this mech who could tear his spark casing out.

Bright green optics, not covered by the visor, swung over at him, taking him in like he hadn't been noticed before.

"Th' even after all this time, when ah _really_ wana get blasted out 'o th' stratosphere, I hav'ta go ta Con homebrew," Sirenis snickered, lifting his cube of odd-colored energon up. "Ya just don' know howta brew th' potent stuff."

"The kind intended to put a flier on their aft in one cube?" Skyswept smiled back, trying his best to project 'friendly, none threatening person.'

"Yap," Sirenis snickered again and tipped the cube back, only to refill it. "Tastes bad, but sure does th' job."

Skyswept hummed and watched as part of the fourth cube was consumed and put together how to ask what he wanted to know.

"Would you tell me why you want to become that overcharged?"

Sirenis favored him with a near-feral grin than quickly dissolved into grief as he looked down at the half empty cube. He downed the entire amount. "You haven't figured it out yet?" He raised an optic ridge, then shook his head a bit. "Prowler went to all that trouble ta kindle, gave his _spark_ for it, an' he didn't even have a sparklin' that could grow up free," he growled and glared at the empty cube before throwing it against the wall with all his strength. "Programin' doesn't matter when ya come back with ya previous life intact. Suba may not remember yet, but he will, an' then 'e's not mine 'r Prowler's anymore."

Skyswept cycled his optics several times, unwilling to give voice to the connections he was making.

"Download Japanese, Earth, 20th century," Sirenis growled, pinging his home's computer to provide the file. "Yeah, obscure as the pit 'ere. Not ta me. Not ta Prowler. Not ta _Drift_."

"It's not possible," Skyswept refused even though it made entirely too much sense.

"Yeah it is," Sirenis glared at him, stopping any further denials. "That critter we're raisin' and trainin' is ya old friend Wing. He'll remember too, one orn. Ah've seen th' files in 'is memory core. 'E'll 'member Drift, 'member 'is trainin', 'member fraggin _everythin'_."

For a long, tense moment, Skyswept processed the information, incorporated it with what he knew, and finally nodded his acquiescence to the statement. It also turned his processors to other things he wished to know now that Sirenis seemed willing to talk about painful and half-hidden subjects.

"Jazz ... who is Lightstep to you?" he murmured softly enough it could be ignored by the mech going to fetch another drinking cube. How a mech his size could consume that much high grade was beyond Skyswept, but he attributed it to experience and wartime systems designed for extreme efficiency and storage during times of relative plenty for times of scarcity ... or imprisonment.

Privately, the small Aerial suspected that Jazz had seen more of the later than the former, but it was difficult to tell no matter how many vigils he had watched over the former Autobot for.

"Mph?" the black and white mech regarded him with a curious cock of his helm before sprawling in his chair once more. "I's meh. Mah first real designation. Was given it as ah new mechling."

Golden optics cycled, struggling to match statement to reality to timeframe.

"Why?" was all Skyswept could manage when his processors threatened to loop on the subject. "How could you not have a designation?"

Sirenis ... Jazz really ... just chuckled. That dark, unpleasant sound again.

"Ah was ah test subject till then. An experiment. Ah did _very_ well," he chuckled again, almost a snicker. "Mah creators couldn't figure out if they wanted ah explorer, infiltrator or assassin outa meh. Ended up with all of it and then some," he paused to down the entire cube in a single gulp, only to refill it. "Oh, ah knew meh own designation, what mah spark goes by, but ah coul'na _tell_ anyone."

Skyswept struggled to assimilate that information. "Do ... you know who they were?"

Sirenis nodded slightly, looking at his cube as it swirled and sparkled. "Three mechs lead th' project. Starscream, Perceptor and Wheeljack. Far as ah coul' work out, none of them recognized meh when ah enlisted. New designation, different frame, ya know. Reports said th' project'd been destroyed. Ah liked it that way. Made sure it _staid_ that way. Ah like being a person. Even as ah tool, Autobots always treated meh as ah _person_."

"How ... how could you _work_ with those mechs?" Skyswept gasped as he placed the designations.

"Memory blocks," Sirenis tapped his helm. "Put'm in when ah joined. Ratchet knew. Nobody else, includin' meh. Not even Prime knew what ah had been."

The Ankmorian flier nodded and allowed the silence to settle, but unlike most times when he could easily spend joors in his former charge's company in compatible silence, now he felt a distinct need to continue asking questions. Still, he hesitated. He knew what Jazz was like overcharged and Sirenis became Jazz at this point.

"Oh, go'n ask already," Sirenis laughed, much more playfully this time.

Skyswept nodded and sipped his high grade, a much finer mix than Sirenis had. "Why do you hate Optimus Prime so much?"

"Mmm, ah don't. Not really," Sirenis shook his head. "Plenty jealous, someti'es furious, but ah don't really hate'm. 'E had Prowl so long, 'e gave the order ta install emotional protocols ... if ah hate any of'm, it's Ratchet. 'E shoulda known better. _Did_ know better, but thought 'e was so much better than those who designed Prowl that 'e could do what they said shouldn't be done. Prowl was _content_ as 'e was. _Prowl_ dinna want the protocols. 'E just wouldn't refuse an order, especially not from Prime," he spat out, the outrage and pain for his long-gone lover coiling up from the depths of his spark in a storm that caused Skyswept to go completely still and silent least he become the target for that frustration.

Sirenis' rage seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had risen as he stared at his Decepticon-brew high grade.

"Ah don't hate'm. Ah hate what 'e _did_." The former saboteur corrected softly. "Ah don't think ah hate any _one_. If ah did, ah'd hav'ta hate myself." He took a long, slow drink. "Ya've seen, heard enough in mah vigils ta know just how much ah've done. Hate actions, hate circumstances, never hate people. Don't 'member where ah first heard that, but it's kept meh relatively sane though the war, doin' what ah had ta do."

"It is a good philosophy for life," Skyswept said cautiously, then found his boldness against when Sirenis just laughed easily and finished his cube.

"Why do you call your creation Suba?"

A low, nasty chuckle was the first reply, continuing as Sirenis fill his cube and settled in his plush chair once more.

"It's an insult. Means 'life stealer' cause 'e is one."

"He mangles the designation of everyone he considers clade," a regal voice spoke, causing Skyswept to look around frantically for the mech it belonged to.

"That's just mah 'Raj," Sirenis laughed, waving in the general direction of his small personal bar. "Ya won't see'm unless 'e wants ya too."

"Raj?"

"Mirage," the disembodied voice responded. "You may leave now. I will see he does nothing more harmful than drink himself into a stupor."

Sirenis laughed easily. "Go on, Skyswept. "e wasn't makin' ah suggestion."

* * *

Drift was standing, staring at his - Wing's - Great Sword, the fingertips of one hand just a millimeter above the surface just below the jewel in the hilt when his doorchime rang. With a disgruntled vent he dropped his hand and turned to see who was bothering him now.

Somehow it shouldn't have surprised him to find Tsubasa at the door, the newly upgraded, though still lightly built mech now towering over him. The page briefly flashed a nervous expression that was quickly schooled into a determinedly poised posture.

"Tsubasa," Drift gave him a curt nod. He _really_ wasn't in the mood for sparing, or much of anything else but trying to draw that tiny sense of Wing out of his Great Sword. "I see they upgraded you well."

For once, the burgundy and midnight blue flier's emerald green optics were not drawn to the Great Sword. They instead were pointedly looking down at Drift's own frame with the intensity usually reserved for Wing's legacy.

"Sir," he said politely, the resonant tenor of his new vocalizers matching the size of his frame. "I wish to ask a favor of you."

Drift raised an optic ridge. Tsubasa _never_ talked like that, not so formally. He was only slightly more formal than Drift himself.

"Which would be?" Drift crossed his arms and looked up at the new mechling.

"I have not used my interfacing upgrades yet. I wish for you to teach me," he responded in a nearly challenging tone, a slight smirk crossing his faceplates as his field flared briefly revealing just how excited the new mechling was.

Drift blinked, too startled by the statement and the brush of an excited, inexperienced field against his own to react for a moment. When his processors caught up his expression softened a bit. "You sure? Your creator or Skyswept know more about being nice in the berth than I do."

"Very sure," the mechling admitted with a half-cocked grin, his field flaring again with impatience to be invited through the door. "They know I'm here," he added, unnecessarily. As if the former Autobot would _not_ know what the new mechling was up to.

Drift muttered something under audio range as he shook his head and stepped back. "Then come in. There are far worse ways I could spend the night. If he's recording this, I want a copy."

The mechling, still slightly awkward with his larger frame, carefully entered Drift's quarters and took them in from his new vantage point.

"You know he is," Tsubasa said with a shrug before settling his tall frame on Drift's couch, hands placed awkwardly on his lap as though he weren't sure where to put them. His optics never left the white mech's frame.

Drift came close to him, sliding to sit straddling the mechling's lap and brought his mouth close to Tsubasa's audio. "Do you want this private? I can block his recording."

"Then he'll just show up in person," Tsubasa vented a good natured sigh, his hands reaching up to tentatively stroke the angular sensor structures on the samurai's helm. "I'd much rather have him observe from a distance."

Drift hummed his acceptance and approval of the touch as he lifted strong hands to slide across Tsubasa's shoulders, taking in the similarities and differences from the handful of frames he knew how to pleasure from experience. He leaned in for a kiss, keeping it soft and chaste at first, testing himself as much as the mechling.

"Is there anything you want from tonight?" Drift asked more gently than he knew he was capable of.

The mechling squirmed in response to the kiss, his field flaring again in clumsy approval of the touch, breaking away to suck in air through his intake as the charge that had begun to race through him long before he'd shown up at the door momentarily overwhelmed him, his fans kicking in to cool his already desperately hot internals.

"I'm not sure," he admitted shakily, unsure whether to be excited or afraid of his response to a simple kiss of the smaller mech.

"Then I'll show you all the basics," Drift rumbled his engine, looking forward to this more than he believed possible. "Unless you want to keep your spark pure for your first love?" he asked, both teasing and serious. Even after more than three hundred and fifty vorns he couldn't forget he was a Decepticon, a killer, at spark.

The mechling laughed outright at the statement and raised a shaking hand to caress Drift's long sensor structure again, wrapping his other arm around the mech's back to pull him closer. "No ... I'd rather try everything now. My spark is far from pure."

"Compared to mine," Drift shrugged and let it go, anticipating that bliss he had rarely indulged in, even with Wing, and hoping he didn't end up traumatizing the youth. He leaned forward to kiss Tsubasa once more, this time brushing his glossa across those fresh lip plates. Firm, knowing hands worked across shoulder struts to the engine nacelles on each side to press exploring fingers into the fine turbine blades and beyond. "You don't need to hold back. No one's expecting you to do more than enjoy yourself and learn a few things."

The burgundy mech opened and closed his mouth as though to say something, but the only sound that emerged was a whimper-like moan at the sensations Drifts fingers were creating in places he had no idea held so much sensitivity. He wordlessly nodded his understanding of Drift's invitation and leaned in to kiss the knight in return, allowing his glossa to probe at the lip components that felt so right on his own. Holding back was something he had no intention of, even if some of the sensations racing trough his sensor net were disturbing in their intensity.

Drift hummed into the kiss, encouraging Tsubasa's glossa with a caress of his own as he continued to search out sensitive spots on the nacelles. He could feel the charge building in his lover's field and smiled into the lingering, ever-intensifying kiss when he drew a shudder from the mechling.

Each touch, each newly awakened sensor, added to the charge zipping through Tsubasa's systems, eliciting a delicious series of moans and keens. The mechling could barely concentrate on touching the older mech in response, resorting to gripping Drift's shoulders as if he were holding on for his functioning.

"Not going to last," he managed to gasp.

Drift smiled as the words broke their kiss and focused on nibbling and licking the broad, burgundy neck cables before him. "Don't try," he repeated, stroking the nacelles as he rubbed against the powerful chassis he had nominally pinned on the couch. "There will be many tonight."

The tall mechling threw his head back with a static-laced moan, giving Drift even better access to the sensitive neck components, relaxing into the sensations and letting go of any worry that once he'd overloaded it would be over. Every touch, every taste left him wanting more. His entire frame began to tremble with the building charge that it seemed to take Drift hardly any effort to grow.

With a feral grin at having such control over another, an intoxicant as strong as high grade for the former Decepticon, Drift moaned as the first tendrils of a charge, of real arousal, began to curl around his systems. "I don't have anywhere I have to be for several orns."

"Please," Tsubasa whispered, feeling as though he would not be able to stand much more before he went over the edge, while at the same time nervous about the edge itself. Even with his newly upgraded sensors, frame, and interfacing protocols, he had not yet brought himself to overload, though he had been close several times. Now, with hardly any effort on Drift's part, he was almost the point of no return, and it was far more overwhelming than anything his own fingers had done while stroking newly discovered sensor-rich areas and the gaps in his armor.

Drift nodded against his throat cables and dug his fingers in deep, pressing against the main air intake sensors in each nacelle and wiggling his fingers as he cross vented heavily against the nacelle frames. "Overload for me, Tsubasa," he growled, demanding and pleading all in one. "Let me see your face in ecstasy."

The mechling did not disappoint. The combination of the order with the sharp sensations in such a sensor-rich part of his frame sent him plummeting over the edge, his mouth wide and optics flaring, a nearly pained look frozen on his faceplates as the explosive charge flared and was released in a rush through his systems. His sharp keens filled the older mech's quarters with an ancient music of pleasure before his vocal processors shorted out.

When Tsubasa managed to focus on reality he found himself still sitting on the couch, Drift straddling his lap, Drift's hands flat against his broad chest and a smile on the older mech's features as he watched the mechling cope with his first overload.

When Drift decided that his lover was coherent enough he spoke. "You're beautiful like that."

"Primus, Drift," was all he could say in response. He already felt the beginnings of a charge forming again, zipping around his spark. His new interfacing protocols were flashing all sorts of suggestions on his HUD of what to do about it.

The white mech grinned with a throaty chuckle. "Why don't we move to the berth and I'll introduce you to plug'n? Have you established your interfacing firewalls yet?"

Tsubasa nearly tripped getting to his feet, pulling the smaller, yet heavier mech up with him in his unabashed eagerness to get to the berth. "As soon as I upgraded. My creator already took a look," he explained breathlessly before leaning over to kiss the older mech in his excitement.

Drift could only laugh and let himself be carried. It was too cute. _Did he really think that?_

"Good," the white mech continued to grin as he was set on the berth, only to roll back and sprawl out on it. "Do you want to explore, or have me teach you the next way?"

Tsubasa grinned and knelt over the smaller mech, looming with his hands on either side of Drift's angular helm. He was enjoying how much larger he was than his one-time instructor, and since the white mech was inviting him...

"I want to touch you," he said, his tone more a question than a statement. "Can ... we do both?" he asked eagerly.

"For a while," Drift purred in anticipation, even though the positioning set off triggers deep in his memory banks. The only mech that large to touch him had been anything but gentle, it had been far from consensual by the standards he knew now. But back then it was just how things were, and it was absolutely Turmoil's right to make use of his lieutenant's body. "We'll lose focus after a while," he reached up to run his hands down Tsubasa's chassis, steadying himself as he opened his interface panel, and reached to ghost his fingers over his lover's, showing Tsubasa where it was, just below his spark level. "Plug your cable into my port, mine into yours, and touch as you wish."

Tsubasa easily found the subroutine that slid the cover open below his spark chamber, giving a stuttering vent at the sensation of exposure and vulnerability that came from simply opening the panel. The indicator lights on his cable were flashing ready, as though they were as eager as he was. His finger tentatively traced the rim and connector pins of Drift's large port before pulling out the white mech's cable with a trembling hand and examining it closely.

Under him, the white mech moaned softly and shivered, his fingers dancing over Tsubasa's chest plates, shoulder nacelles ... paying extra attention to the seam that would open to expose the mechling's most vulnerable components and his very life force.

The aerial shivered and keened lightly at the suggestive touch, offlining his optics for a moment to simply feel. When the golden optics lit again, he gave a slightly embarrassed grin and brushed the cable against his own port, groaning at the bare physical sensation. Their interfacing cables, ports, and the compartments that housed them were deliberately sensor rich to add to the sheer eroticism of connecting. He briefly toyed with asking Drift to do the actual deed, nervous about making a mistake or doing something that would be embarrassing, but he dismissed the insecurity, determined to show that his lack of experience did not mean he was unsure of his desires. His intakes sucked in more air to cool his rapidly heating systems, and he sat up so he could take hold of his own cable in his other hand, plugging both into their respective ports simultaneously.

A sharp gasp greeted the first contact, pleasure spiking in both mechs even as their systems pinged each other for access.

Messages popped up on Tsubasa's HUD, demanding his attention.

_Engage Interfacing Firewalls?_  
 _Y/N_

The mechling quickly signaled affirmative and then dismissed the message, tempted to turn off his HUD altogether to focus completely on the sensation of another consciousness hovering next to his own, poised to penetrate. It was both erotic and disconcerting on a level that had never crossed his processors as a possibility before. While medics, his creator, and mentors had plugged into his dataports prior to this, there was simply nothing that compared to sheer pervasiveness of this connection, and they had barely begun to access the other's systems.

_Grant level 2 access requested by Drift?_  
 _Y/N_

Below Tsubasa, Drift moaned softly, his pale optics nearly off line. His hands were busy though, exploring down Tsubasa's chassis to where hips joined torso and the armor had relatively large gaps to permit easy movement. Tsubasa reached out and began to shakily stroke the chest underneath him in turn. He unconsciously mimicked what was had been done to him as he focused on the seam over Drift's powerfully resonant spark that was just as compelling to him as the great sword. The request flashed again, impatiently, on his HUD before he actually found the wits to pay attention to it, quickly granting the access, completely unsure of what to expect.

He'd barely signaled affirmative when a powerful, knowledgeable personality and will rushed through his processors. On a certain level, he knew this was Drift, but it was difficult to think even that much. He felt pleasure, intensely, but also gentle amusement, tightly leashed desire and the background of indescribable grief and rage. Violence was there too, inherent in the mech below him in a way that it wasn't in even his creator, a mech he knew had taken many lives and found it easy.

True to the nature of his spark, coding, and upbringing, he did not flinch away from the presence, but welcomed it with a moan of pleasure at the raw intimacy of the connection and an insatiably playful curiosity about all functioning, especially, at that moment, the spark who was Drift.

"Soon," Drift choked out from under him, his emotions in far more turmoil than he'd ever anticipated at being hooked into this mech. "Sparks will be soon."

Between them, in both processors, information was exchanged, cataloged, stored. Pleasure was secondary to learning all they could about the other. Yet their bodies had other priorities. Energy and data roared between them, building up a charge that made every circuit in their chassis tingle in the most delightful way.

Drift turned his optics off, drifting in the frightening peace of the acceptance only Wing had given him before this moment. He knew, deep down, that he would do _anything_ to keep this mech for himself. No matter how wrong it was to pursue one so young. He _wanted_ this as badly as he'd wanted out of the gutters of Cybertron.

~So good,~ the mechling whispered over the connecting, not flinching at the strength of Drift's desire for him, instead embracing it and revealing his own desire to know the resonance of that spark since the first moment he had sensed it, something the then sparkling had accepted as normal and pursued with all the unstoppable creativity of his nature.

The flexible, lithe strength of Tsubasa's own will flooded their connection. Young and inexperienced, but fully able to embrace and pursue what he desired.

It was enough to shock Drift nearly out of the connection.

~You ... my resonance?~ the white mech was too stunned to form complete thoughts. ~The sword.~

In reply Tsubasa shared his memory of first seeing Drift and what his creator had said of it.

~We were meant to be together, even when I wasn't ready for it yet.~ Tsubasa moaned and arched, his chassis shuddering over Drift's, perilously close to overloading.

The mechling was past worrying about Drift's reaction to his odd attraction. He simply could not get enough of the powerful presence flooding his systems with such raw intensity. He wasn't even sure when it happened, but he was suddenly on his back, the smaller mech held tight to his chassis, his hands touching everywhere, taking in the entirety of the frame scraping against his own with outrageously hot friction. His fingertips found their way to the scabbards of the two lesser swords and dipped inside.

The rush of arousal-sensation exploded across the link, tipping Tsubasa over the edge into his second overload and pulling a willing Drift along for the ride.

This time, when the mechling came back to his senses, he was stroking the smaller mech's back struts, his leg wrapped around the smaller ones to keep them close. He was pleasantly aware of Drift, still linked to his systems, an intoxicant far better than the high grade his creator had given him to celebrate his upgrade.

Drift began to touch him again, feather-light strokes that were as much calming as arousing. He shifted forward and leaned down to claim a long, languid kiss.

~Anything you'd like to try before our sparks?~ Drift murmured across the hardline still connecting them. ~Odds are neither of us will be up for much afterwards.~

Tsubasa nearly sat up in his excitement at touching the spark whose resonance he had been drawn to for most of his functioning. He forced himself to relax, and deepened the kiss with his awkward mechling charm, reveling in the mixture of humor and arousal he felt in Drift across the connection.

~You still want to touch my spark ... knowing how much I've wanted yours,~ he asked, uncertainty momentarily overpowering his natural confidence.

With a slow, teasing slide of fingertips along the seam of Tsubasa's chest plates, Drift nodded. ~Yes,~ he said firmly. ~Open your chest plates when you're ready.~

"Thank you," Tsubasa nearly choked as he started trembling all over again. He took a moment to compose himself, teasing at Drift's neck cabling with his glossa and dente, showing that like in everything else, he was a quick learner in the ways of pleasure. His fans and venting betrayed his nervous arousal as he signaled his chestplates to spread, the light of his spark bathing Drift's white armor in a swirling rich blue and green glow.

It was quite enough to cause Drift's optics to go wide for a moment, his surprise at the appearance rippling clearly across the hardline.

~I've never seen anything like that,~ he murmured in explanation. ~Dual colors are beyond rare.~

~Just a spark,~ Tsubasa said modestly, but there was no hiding across the connection how much the comment made him preen. It was one thing to have a lovely frame, which he did. Anyone with enough credits could purchase that. It was quite another to have an unusual and special spark.

Drift could only hang his head, shaking it as he laughed at the demure outside response so at odds with what the mechling felt. But instead of opening his chest plates for a merge, he shifted his balance to put most of his weight on his knees to free both his hands. A single finger lightly traced one facet of the crystalline chamber, eliciting a shocked cry of a pleasure from the Tsubasa as he arched his back and thrust his chest up into the touch, his hands reaching up tightly grip Drifts waist, his fingers sliding under the looser plates of armor there.

"Oh Primus, please, more!" the aerial wantonly begged the far more experienced mech.

"Always," Drift whispered, no longer able to stop himself from expressing that he had no intention of giving Tsubasa up, not to anyone or anything. It was a rush so intense it made him dizzy to submit to that desire, to accept that come what may, he had something to _fight_ for once more.

More feather-light touches came, each a caress of maddening pleasure Tsubasa had no words for.

Drift could only feel privately grateful the mechling was far enough gone that he couldn't recognize that these touches were not learned by pleasure from a lover, but from an intimate understanding of what caused pain and when pleasure became pain. That he could take Turmoil, Starscream's and Megatron's lessons and create the _vision_ before him drew a ragged moan from his vocalizer.

Tsubasa was writhing underneath him, his face locked in an expression of pure rapture. His keens went well beyond audio range as knowledgeable fingers continued to stroke his casing. With a scream that could have come from a tortured mech, if Drift had not known better, the mechling overloaded again, his casing spiraling open in a near automatic response to his desire and the touch so close to his spark.

It sent a huge rush of desire though Drift's systems, nearly enough to trigger and overload by itself. Combined with the roiling, explosive power of the energy snapping at his field and circuits from the mech under him he threw his helm back with a roar and surrendered to the overload. He had enough awareness to get his hands on either side of Tsubasa's helm and brace himself, but it still brought his spark so close to the large one under him that he trembled in anticipation and only just managed to keep his chamber closed until _after_ he recovered.

~Ready?~ Drift murmured across the hardline when he felt Tsubasa able to focus again.

~Yes, oh slag yes. Please Drift. Let me _know_ you,~ the younger mech begged, his large spark's corona visibly reaching for the smaller that was still protected behind its casing. He retained barely enough coherence to turn motor control firmly over to the more experienced mech, knowing he could injure both of them in his eagerness.

With a small nod Drift relaxed Tsubasa's frame. He spiraled his own spark chamber open and leaned forward just a bit, only enough for the very edge of his corona to touch the dual-colored one below him.

Just the flicker of touch and the intense pleasure-emotion-intimacy that came with it had Tsubasa undone again, thankful that Drift was firmly in control or he would certainly have arched his back and physically pulled the smaller mech's chest into his own wider one. Instead, static-laced whimpering keens expressed aloud what his spark was expressing through the tendrils reaching out to intertwine with Drift's own purple-black ones.

With each brush and playful dance of tendril with tendril Tsubasa felt a burst of _Drift_ on a level that processors and coding could never fully express. He was intoxicating and beautiful and violent and just and deeply, deeply familiar on a level that made him ache for more...so much more.

~Don't loose yourself so quickly,~ Drift's will came across the hardline as much as his words did. ~The longer you hold to yourself on the longer it lasts.~

~Yes,~ the mechling managed to gasp in agreement, somehow managing to bring forward the discipline and patience learned with the Knights. He sank into the pleasure of the moment rather than focusing on his spark's relentless desire to know the ultimate intimacy that came with joining another.

* * *

"Query: What is Prowl doing?"

"Exactly what it feels like."

"Why?" Soundwave managed to ask even as coherent thought momentarily sputtered at the manipulations of spark energy Prowl was wrapping around and through him.

"I _feel_ like it," the still-damaged sparked replied, a lick of unstable energy flickering through his core as he moved deeper into Soundwave's.

A resonant moan traveled on the energy currents connecting them, and Soundwave felt his unexpected lover grin with a flicker of intent that would have done Starscream proud. A functioning far too long rippled across the former telepath's awareness, Prowl offering as much as much as he attempted to take. What he did take, as Soundwave offered no resistance to the plundering of his memories.

He understood this need. He knew he could not give the absolution and vengeance Prowl needed. He knew Prowl knew it. Yet Soundwave could ease a little of the pain that could never be dealt with because the Primes never joined them in the Well. They went to the Matrix for the rest of existence. Prowl could never face his former master to find a way to let go.

If what he had done to the others his rage and pain had fixated on was any indication it would have been a long, brutal encounter if Prowl ever did find Optimus here. With no battle computer, no logic chips, no need to maintain order and little knowledge on how to modulate his emotions, the former Autobot officer was rarely able to adopt a neutral state that was the sign of health here. He was either like this, a plotting, explosive, pain-filled nova of hate fueled need, or pulled so tightly in on himself that he might as well not exist.

Most of those who survived the bulk of the war were like that. They all held some hurts that only time and experience other than war could sooth. Soundwave wondered if Prowl might be one of those who could not find peace here. After this long, he should have begun to calm, begun to settle, yet he was little better than when he'd finally worn his anger out with Ratchet.

It had been disturbing for all who had been forced to watch. No matter what side of the war you were on, everyone respected Ratchet. Prowl had torn into Ratchet's spark with a rage that started them all and terrified more than a few of former Decepticon senior officers. The medic was still a healer to his core and Ratchet had taken the spark-tearing-spark abuse until Primus had intervened and forced Prowl into stasis. Their creator had tended to Ratchet's damage over the healer's objections. There was incredible guilt there too. Easily enough to match Prowl's anger.

Time and again they met, Prowl tearing into Ratchet, until one time they brushed by each other and nothing happened. They weren't friends, something that hurt many sparks around them, but the pair had seemed to make peace and been drained of their negative energy.

Prowl'd lashed out at others as well, predominantly his former allies.

It was, in the end, that core-deep sense of not belonging that had drawn Soundwave out completely. He'd still expected to be rejected, to be attacked, each and every time he invaded Prowl's space, but he never was.

This time, he was finally rewarded with why. Of all the sparks here, Soundwave's smooth, natural calmness eased the pain in Prowl's spark for a time. As a Decepticon, he had been forgiven his crimes for Prowl on his deactivation. Despite their relatively high rank in the war, Soundwave had never personally wronged Prowl, at least not from Prowl's perspective.

As the energies settled to a pleasant buzz, Soundwave cautiously felt the spark pressed closed to his. Prowl would move in a few moments, but for now he was nearly ... peaceful.

* * *

Drift stopped in his tracks, so startled by the out-of-place cacophony in the public park he had been walking past to given the Knight he was walking beside enough waning to stop in tandem. Three youths, two mechlings and an older youngling, under the watchful optic of Skyswept, though it looked to Drift like the Knight was taking a page from the Decepticon handbook on raising warriors. It _looked_ like the three youths were having a knockdown, drag-out, no-holds-barred brawl.

That wasn't what had locked his attention, though it was unusual enough. It was the near white Ankmorian flier of the youths that made his spark ache in its familiarity.

"They're mechlings," Ax said, hoping he was reading the warrior correctly. "They're just playing."

"I didn't know Wing had a sparkling," Drift snapped his jaw shut too late to stop the wistful sound from escaping.

"He didn't," Ax responded quietly, following Drift's gaze to the tussling younglings. He hesitated slightly. "He was far too young to be a creator. That is Tsubasa."

Drift snapped his gaze to the much larger mech and glared at him incredulously. "Tsusaba's maroon and half again as tall as I am already. I saw him a decaorn ago."

Ax shifted uneasily at knowing something the warrior so much closer to the young mechling didn't know. "As I understand it, he was rebuilt four orns ago on his request."

Drift looked at the youths, shrugged and grunted before continuing on his way.

It wasn't enough to make Ax miss the pain in his optics, or recognize the ill-temper covering hurt feelings the warrior would never admit to.

* * *

Prowl felt relaxed and centered, at least as much as he could be. He still felt distressed at how much anger he'd held in his functioning and how much he couldn't seem to let go of. If Primus couldn't sooth him, what could?

"Living once more, my child," Primus's resonant voice swirled around him. "It is not a solution I like, yet it is best for you. You will remember nothing of your previous life. You will only feel drawn to individuals that your spark still needs to make peace with. You will feel anger, attraction and all you do here, but muted and you will not know the cause."

"It is likely to give me peace, when it is over?" Prowl asked softly. He was still a tactician, a planner and organizer, even without the specialized hardware that had made him so important to the war that hurt him so much.

"It is more likely to than anything I can offer you, dear one."

Prowl considered the wording, acknowledge the risk it implied, and put it up against the simple fact that he could not function as he was.

"Then go with my blessing, my lovely little spark. May this life sooth your spark."

* * *

Syshhik's first awareness was of being _inside_. Inside felt safe, comfortable ... soothing. He was protected in here.

_Systems ... stand-by._

_Core programming initialization ... Completed._

_Running stability check. ... completed. Stabilized._

_Running capacity check. ... completed._

_Emotional protocols online ... limited set._

_Systems check ... Connecting ... Completed._

_Analyzing Systems:_  
 _Sensor suite on stand by._  
 _Primary Tactical Computer on standby._  
 _Communications disabled._  
 _HUD online._  
 _Weapons systems disabled._  
 _Self repair online._  
 _Energon pump and lines at optimal functioning._  
 _Hydraulics online._  
 _Lubrication network online._

_Running Systems Check. Running ... Completed._

_Analyzing function files._  
 _Designation: To be determined._  
 _Function: Planetary Planner for Cybertron._

_Initializing sensor suite. Completed. Sensor suite online at 25% capacity, increase by 5% per half-klik._

Information flooded his processors about the outside world, all of it easily sorted, categorized and identified as to meaning.

His powered up his optics slowly, content with feeling safe in his chassis, and took in the visual. Three mechs were before him. The largest set off something in his spark and he leapt back, his three-panel sensor wings flaring wide as a static-lased hiss of threatened aggression echoed in the chamber.

A fraction of a nanoklik later the large mech stepped back and raised large hands in a motion that his social protocols insisted was a peace offering.

_Internal comms initializing on external command. Communications enabled._

::Easy. It'll be okay. We aren't here to harm you. My designation is Motherboard. Do you know who you are?::

 _Femme. Former human, designation Carly Witwicky. Imprinter._ his databanks supplied about the slender golden and light blue femme his height.

:: Syshhik,:: he answered, vocalizations completely level over the comm despite the _fear-threatened-danger-escape_ demands his spark was making against what his processors told him. The conflict held him still, crouched down and sensor panels wide to make himself appear larger and more threatening, but also to gather as much data as he could and protect his most vulnerable parts.

Motherboard waved the other two back and stepped forward, unafraid of the threatening display or the palpable fear radiating from Syshhik.

Another step closer, halving the original distance. Her arms remained loose at her sides, palms turned towards the newly sparked mech and fingers relaxed.

He spared her a brief glance at each movement, but _she_ didn't register as a threat. Only the large red mech did.

 _Prime_ his databanks finally supplied. That bit of information forced several systems, on-line and off-line, to stand down. Everything, actually, except for his spark.

"Shu, Syshhik," Motherboard crooned as she came within reach of him. One hand reached out, demanding his attention.

Threat assessments ran, information seemed to explode into his processors, yet it was soothing to watch his tactical computer run the calculations and decide to allow the touch.

She smiled brightly as her fingers touched his shoulder without rejection. His attention was still focused on Prime. Still uneasy. New programming insisted he calm down, that this one's touch meant everything was safe or would be fine.

He didn't understand, but accepted what every system other than his spark insisted on and slowly straitened, settling his sensor wings to what his systems told him was their default position where the least strain was put on the joints.

"There, everything will be fine," Motherboard chirred softly and guided him to one side of the large sphere in the center of the room. "I know it can be very frightening when you first boot up. Take a klik and relax your systems. Prime can give his little speech when you're ready."

Despite the desire to not to be the reason of a delay, any delay, he did as she told him and focused on her briefly. "What is an imprinter for?"

Motherboard smiled brightly, her warm blue optics lighting in delight. "It's one who's assigned to a newly sparked government mech to ensure they integrate into their frame, society and duties with the minimum of stress and difficulty. I'm here to guide you until you are ready to be on your own."

"When will that be?" he looked at her impassively.

"When you are ready," she repeated, a tone of insistence that it was the only answer he was going to get.

He inclined his head in acquiescence. "Then I would have Prime give his speech now, Motherboard."

* * *

Syshhik did his best to ignore the two mechs being inappropriately intimate in the seats in front of him. Normally his rank and duties would provide him with a private transport, and he frequently took advantage of the luxury to save time. New Crystal City, however, was very far from Cybertron and this shuttle was going when he needed to go and would return to Cybertron within a few orns of his anticipated time to leave. It was an unneeded use of resources to take a ship by himself when this one already matched his schedule.

He twitched the wings folded tightly against his back, once again cursing the idiot who decided that an Aerial the size of a normal grounder would be the best frame for planetary planner. Not that his duties were nearly so limited these orns. He would admit he was grateful whoever that designer was had chosen the much more compact Ankmorian frame over the wide swept and optic-catching but unfolding and unwieldy wings that Vosians favored.

Now half way through the twenty-orn journey to the most remote outpost of Cybertronian society he was beginning to regret his choice to save resources. The yellow and red frontline warriors had spent nearly every moment in some kind of intimate contract with each other. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, his databanks supplied. Twins, former Autobots, part of the crew of the Ark and had served both Optimus and Rodimus Prime directly. They also had a disciplinary record that hurt Syshhik's processors to contemplate with the fact that they'd both received honorable discharges. Now Sunstreaker was an artist of some renown. Sideswipe owned several flourishing businesses and managed his brother-lover's sells.

Two of Sunstreaker's more abstract paintings graced the Prime's official office in New Iacon. Prime favored him, and though Syshhik disliked the favoritism, he did agree that the mech was a talented artist in many styles from realism to abstract to classic temple.

What _they_ were doing going to New Crystal City was a small itch Syshhik had so far refused to scratch. He was fully aware the pair shadowed him. They were in any city or outpost, no matter how remote, that Syshhik went to ever since he'd gotten lightly overcharged at one of his first large functions and ended up in their berth. They hadn't proposition him since he gave them a very firm no while not under the influence, yet they continued to be wherever he went.

Another pair, also from the Ark crew, were being more circumscript but no less affectionate. Hound and Trailbreaker, his HUD identified them when he glanced over. Unlike the twins, he knew why these two were on this shuttle. They were seeking Hound's former lover's blessing on their bonding, something too important to Hound to do over a transmission.

They would be leaving in two orns with the shuttle according to their tickets.

The twins would be staying the vorn until the shuttle returned, just as he was.

* * *

"Welcome to New Crystal City," a tiny Ankmorian flier, no taller than Syshhik himself and with a similar white chassis, only with more red highlights and very little black, greeted them with a cheerfulness that was almost nauseating after being confined with four mechs who had known and fought by each other's sides for so long. "I'm Tsubasa, Knight-elect of the Circle of Light. I've been assigned to you while you are here."

"And your keeper?" Sunstreaker jerked his chin towards the glowering white Knight by the spaceport's edge.

Tsubasa's smile brightened, if it was possible, and shifted to utter adoration. "My intended, Drift."

"Drift," Sunstreaker's optics narrowed as he repeated the designation, all three mechs who knew him, and Drift, stiffening at a shift I can't perceive. "You mean Deadlock."

"I haven't been Deadlock in a long time," Drift stepped forward with the grace that this city was known for but all the violent nature of the Decepticon he once was just barely held in check. "Prime pardoned me, just as he pardoned you and everyone else who agreed to behave."

Despite his nature and history, I felt no threat from this mech. Sunstreaker, on the other hand, was radiating his intend to do damage to any convenient target.

"It's not worth it," Sideswipe was between his brother and Drift, his back to the former Decepticon as he held Sunstreaker back. "Remember what we're here for."

Sunstreaker glared at his brother, violence rolling off him in waves that pushed Hound, Trailbreaker and myself back out of self-preservation. I could not be surprised that Sideswipe remained close, or much surprise that Drift did.

Yet Tsubasa ... the mech was barely in his final upgrade and he knew no fear. My gaze is drawn to Drift as Tsubasa and Sideswipe try to calm the still-glitched artist-former warrior and I can't help but wonder if turning those of a violent nature, of teaching them control and focus, is Tsubasa's gift.

* * *

I'm also officially admitting defeat here. I don't want to finish this story. I'm tired of it and other bunnies are biting me. So here's what I had planed for the last few parts.

Pt 36: Jazz and Syshhik encounter each other somewhat randomly and Jazz realizes who it is (Prowl) on first touch.  
Pt 37: Jazz convinces Syshhik to remain in NCC for the bonding of Drift and Tsubasa. He spends the time trying to court his former lover.  
Pt 38: Tsubasa bonds with Drift, awakening Wing's memories.  
Pt 39: Syshhik spends the night in Jazz's berth.  
Pt 40: Syshhik and Jazz bond, awakening many of Prowl's memories related to Jazz.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Fandom** : Transformers G1, season 3 with IDW aspects  
>  **Chars** : Jazz/Prowl, Optimus Prime/Prowl, Drift/Wing  
>  **Rating** : R  
>  **Codes** : AU, Death, Spark, Tactile, PnP, Mechpreg, Sparkling, Twincest  
>  **Summary** : He's alone, he cold, he's miserable, and he doesn't believe that anyone is likely to notice.  
>  **Notes** : The AU comes from Prowl being alive. Not going into how or why here. Not relevant.  
> klik = 1 minute; joor = 1.2 hours; orn = day/32 joor; metacycle = 6 years; vorn = 83 years  
> [Antepathy on LJ](http://www.shadow_vector.livejournal.com) is basically the base of my Drift, Wing and Sniper!Perceptor and much of what she writes of them is my head-canon, especially the Drift/Wing stuff.  
> References to the ritual in First Binding by antepathy  
> pt 1: http://www.community.livejournal.com/shadow_vector/95090.html  
> pt 2: http://www.community.livejournal.com/shadow_vector/97326.html  
> If the sparkling of a new adeult mech looks familiar, it's because femme and I already wrote a sparking scene that I like in Calming Fire. Why reinvent the wheel?


End file.
